


Be Bold, Be Bold (But Not Too Bold)

by numinousnic



Series: The Plague Upon the House [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archives Found Family, Background Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Beholding Avatar Sasha James, Character Death Fix, Coping With Eldritch Horrors (With Varying Degrees of Success), F/F, Jane Prentiss Lives, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sasha James Lives, Season 3 AU, Slaughter Avatar Melanie King
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24440071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/numinousnic/pseuds/numinousnic
Summary: In the heart of the Institute, an insidious new power seizes control. Beyond the gaze of the Eye, the Stranger gathers its strength for the Unknowing.And, caught between them, the Archives staff is hurled headlong into a storm that will leave none of them unscathed.The sequel toThe Plague Upon the House.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Jane Prentiss
Series: The Plague Upon the House [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566694
Comments: 95
Kudos: 113





	1. Sea Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the new head of the Magnus Institute, and Jonathan Sims' interrogation of his inclination towards isolation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said I had a few (okay, a _lot_ of) one-shots planned after _[The Plague Upon the House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20761388)?_ Well, all of the one-shots that were set to take place in S3... kind of merged into one fic over the course of outlining them. 
> 
> Did I expect to be writing another longfic so soon? No. Do I have any idea how long this is going to be? Also no. But am I incredibly excited to share it with you all? Absolutely! So: welcome back, and I hope you enjoy the latest thing to come out of this (no longer so) little AU of mine!
> 
> The title of this fic is a quote from the English fairy tale ["Mr. Fox."](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/English_Fairy_Tales/Mr._Fox)
> 
> _**Content warnings are in the end notes.** _

On Monday, Jon arrives at the Institute earlier than usual.

Him being early to work _had_ begun as a purposeful act when he’d left his flat that morning. After all, he’d had more than enough time to think about what would, or could, come that Monday on Friday night, and on Saturday, and on Saturday night, and on Sunday, too. And by Sunday night — the third night spent listlessly staring at his bedroom ceiling or, for variety’s sake, at the alarm clock on his nightstand — Jon had been starting to feel reasonably secure about the choice he thought he should be making.

Reading statements was one thing: a skin-crawling, yet strangely soothing thing. And though the feeling that act gave him was an utterly discomforting one, it was a feeling he had grown uneasily accustomed to. But giving a statement of his own, Jon suspected, would be quite another thing.

And Jon couldn’t say he was entirely comfortable having witnesses to whatever that _thing_ ended up being. Even if he knew who those eyes belonged to.

Granted, he _had_ thought about calling one of his _(assistants? coworkers?)_ friends, just to get a second opinion. As a matter of fact, Jon had thought about it multiple times over the course of the weekend — not just during his sleepless nights, but during his restless daylight hours as well — but he had dismissed the impulse each time. Sasha, he was sure, had Jane to concern herself with, and Jane with Sasha. Tim _had_ strongly hinted he would be giving a statement alongside Jon, but Jon felt it hardly necessary to bother him for his thoughts when he could barely make up _his_ mind about giving his own statement.

And Martin… _well._

Jon had just emerged from the depths of Pimlico Station into the suddenly biting, drizzling damp of the February morning when he realized two things. First, he’d left his umbrella back at his flat, after looking out the window and, ironically enough, deeming the weather not wretched enough to warrant it. And second, his phone was vibrating.

Digging his phone out and shielding it from the elements with his arm as he squinted at the screen, Jon could see that he had an unread text from Martin. _think i’ll bring in coffee for everyone again,_ it read. _we might need it._

Then a second text came through: _want me to get you a bagel while i’m there?_

Jon had already eaten breakfast that morning. He’d made scrambled eggs, again, and he’d found himself thinking of Friday morning and Martin’s awful admission to _microwaving_ eggs with every mouthful. 

Still, he’d found himself typing back, as best he could: _That might be nice._ And then: _Thank you._

He’d stashed his phone away and dashed out into the rain shortly after sending the text; even if he was going into work early, he didn’t want to arrive any later than the time he’d appointed for himself. But as he hurried along the sidewalk, head tucked into his jacket collar as much as possible, Jon had felt his phone vibrate again in his pocket.

And, despite the unexpectedly rotten weather, he’d found himself smiling, just a little.

By the time he’s climbing the broad steps of the Institute, Jon is back to reconsidering his approach to Monday. And he strongly suspects this reemergence of his indecision has something to do with Martin’s texts.

Ducking under the portico and out of the rain, Jon pulls his phone just far enough out of his pocket to check for any new texts. Save for the unread text he’d received from Martin just as he’d left Pimlico Station — a smiley face and a thumbs-up emoji — the screen is blank.

Jon lets his phone drop back into his pocket. What was it Martin had said to him on Thursday, in the depths of the tunnels that were so dark that Jon was certain he’d never see the light of day again? That he kept getting glimpses of Jon through the cracks of all the walls he’d thrown up. That he didn’t know why Jon didn’t want anyone to see him. That he had seen Jon anyway. 

And that he wished Jon could see himself, too.

 _But what is there of me to see?_ Jon wonders dryly, pulling open one of the double doors leading into the Institute and heading inside. _And does anyone actually_ want _to see_ _that? See a lonely child scared of spiders? See an even lonelier man turning into a monster without knowing it?_

 _I don’t want you to — to_ brood _and think you have to suffer alone just because you think you’re some kind of monster!_ Martin’s past retort resurfaces in his mind with surprising speed, as if he’s right there with him. _Because you’re_ not. 

Behind him, the wind slams the door to the Institute shut with a hollow finality, and Jon sighs heavily. _You don’t know that,_ he responds to his memory of Martin. _None of us do. None of us know what I’m capable of._

 _I know you’re scared. But so are we._ Martin’s voice is as desperate as he remembers it, but strangely straightforward and sure. _And I know everything’s bad, but we’re — we’re in this together, right?_ _So we should be dealing with it_ together.

 _… Together. Right._ Jon swallows. _And how well has_ that _worked out for us so far?_

“Jon? Jon!”

Jon blinks, startled at the interruption of his internal argument. Glancing around the almost-empty atrium, he sees Rosie leaning over the reception desk, frantically beckoning him over.

Jon makes his way over to her, wincing at the obnoxious squishing sounds his soaked shoes are making with each step he takes across the pristinely polished floor. “Rosie,” he says once he’s close enough. “What is —?”

Rosie cuts him off. “Have you heard?” she asks. “About Elias?”

Jon frowns. “What about Elias?” he asks carefully. _Where to even_ begin _with Elias?_

Rosie exhales, running a hand through her hair, despite it already being pulled back. “Elias got _arrested,”_ she says, as if she can barely believe the words coming out of her mouth. “For _murder.”_

 _Right. That. Somehow the_ least _surreal of Thursday’s many revelations._ “... Oh,” Jon manages, trying to sound casual. “Who... did he murder?”

 _“Gertrude Robinson.”_ Rosie’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “And — and another man. Or… _almost_ murdered, anyway. I don’t know who, and I don’t think the police know either; they just _found_ him, or what was _left_ of him, in Elias’ office when —” She stops, peering at him in sudden confusion. “Wait, you’ve _really_ heard nothing about this? Did the police not talk to you on Friday? I mean, considering it was _Gertrude…”_

 _Thursday, yes. Friday, no._ “I — I wasn’t in on Friday,” Jon says awkwardly. “Felt a bit under the weather, so I thought it best to stay home and not... overexert myself?”

(Jon remembers too late that he _was,_ in fact, in on Friday: if only to help Sasha and the others pack up Jane’s cell. Granted, he hadn’t seen Rosie manning the reception desk at the time, but _still —)_

If Rosie suspects anything, she doesn’t call him on it. “Well, good for you,” she says sympathetically. “I mean, I’m sorry that you weren’t feeling well, but you deserve to take a break, Jon. You work yourself too hard sometimes.”

Jon attempts a smile. “Uh, thanks.” He clears his throat, trying to ignore how dry it is. While he’s sure that hearing the whole truth wouldn’t help Rosie’s current distress any, he still doesn’t enjoy lying to her face. “So, the police came ‘round on Friday?” 

Rosie nods. “The detective who talked to me — name’s Tonner, I think; I’ve seen her around a time or two — said that they got called in late on Thursday, but, well —” she lets out a shaky half-laugh “— couldn’t exactly ask any questions then with no one around.” Rosie frowns. “She was so… _intense_ about it, though. Kept asking me if I had any idea who that poor man was, if I’d noticed anything unusual about Elias or about…”

Jon waits for the end of her sentence, but it never comes. “About…?” he asks cautiously.

“About _you,”_ Rosie says, worry creasing her forehead. “I tried to ask her why she was asking about _you,_ when she’d said herself that _Elias_ was the murderer, but —” She shrugs helplessly. “She just said something how _she_ was asking the questions here and just kept bombarding me with them.”

Jon swallows. _Why was Daisy asking about me?_ he wonders, unease twisting his stomach. _She certainly grilled us all enough when she was on the scene on Thursday; what does she need to go behind my back to find out?_

_And what does she think she’s going to find?_

“Well,” Jon eventually says, “I suppose if Da — _Detective Tonner_ wants to talk to me, she’ll be back again today.” He rubs at his neck; the rain soaking his hair is beginning to drip underneath his collar. “If she asks for me, just send her down to the Archives.”

“She didn’t strike me as the type to stop by reception as a rule,” Rosie says wryly. “But if I do see her stalking through the atrium, I’ll call down and give you a warning.”

“Appreciated.” Jon pauses. Though Rosie seems to have calmed down a bit since their conversation began, she still seems on edge. “Are you… holding up all right?” he ventures. _It’s the least I can do… considering I don’t even know where to_ begin _with explaining all of this._

Rosie sighs, picking at her nails. “It’s just… _bizarre,_ you know?” she says. “I mean, I’ve worked here long enough; I’m hardly blind to all of the weirdness in this place. But... this feels like a different kind of weird from —”

“— the Archives?” Jon says mordantly.

“I was _going_ to say Artifact Storage,” Rosie says apologetically, “but, I mean... considering you use a _tape recorder_ because you keep insisting that some of the statements in the Archives just _won’t_ record digitally —”

“I’ve told you before; it’s not user error on my end,” Jon says, then winces at his sharp tone. “And… it’s probably not a hardware or software error on _your_ end, either,” he adds, a little more conciliatory. “Some of the statements are just… well, peculiar.” _To put it_ very _mildly._

Rosie cracks a smile. “Apology accepted,” she says. “Honestly, those kinds of difficulties aren’t _entirely_ unexpected. I mean, the Institute studies the paranormal and the unexplainable — on some level, I suppose ‘weird’ is just in the job description.” Her smile fades. “But _murder..._ that’s not so much _weird_ as it is…” She swallows. “It’s just _unsettling_ is what it is. I mean, you _think_ you know someone after working with them for so long, but I guess you never _really_ know.”

A memory of a sing-song hiss in the dark suddenly snakes through Jon’s mind, and he barely suppresses a shudder.

“And… it just makes you look at everything you _do_ know about them a little differently, you know?” Rosie continues. “Don’t get me wrong; Elias was never anything but pleasant to me, but I always thought there was something... a little _off_ about him. And him hiring Jane Prentiss just... _really_ brought that to the fore. I mean, she seemed perfectly nice when I met her, but given… well —” she shrugs “— the _circumstances_ under which she ended up at the Institute, it seemed a strange response.”

 _That_ gets Jon’s attention. “What do you mean by that?”

Rosie blinks. “Wait,” she asks, confused, “you mean Elias added Jane Prentiss to your staff without _any_ explanation?”

Jon snorts. “Oh, there was _an_ explanation,” he says, “but I’d like to know what explanation he gave _you.”_

“A very general one.” Seeming to realize she was ruining her manicure, Rosie crosses her arms tightly over her chest. “Elias told me that she was recovering from a parasite, probably supernatural in origin, and that once she was better, the Institute was going to give her a job. Help her get back on her feet. Since… we couldn’t help her when she came to us to give her statement before.” She sighs. “I — I feel like I _should_ have been more suspicious at the time, but… I don’t know; he made it sound like it was the right thing to do. The _kind_ thing to do.” Rosie glances up at him hesitantly. “Was it?”

Jon thinks back to Friday morning and to Jane: her hair mussed from sleep, scarfing down the scrambled eggs he’d made like she’d never eat anything again. He’ll never forget the gaunt, grinning, worm-ridden once-woman looming over the trap door, but after so many months of seeing his and Tim’s scars reflected on every inch of Jane’s skin, the monster is getting harder and harder to remember.

“... I think it was,” he says after a moment. “In my experience, the Institute generally sticks to research and theory. It’s rare we get the opportunity to actually _help_ anyone with what we’ve learned.” _Or_ choose _to help._

 _All too often, it’s easier just to_ observe.

Rosie nods, seemingly relieved. “That’s what I was thinking.” She smiles ruefully. “I may not trust Elias anymore — for obvious reasons — but it’s nice to know I can still trust my own conscience.”

“Well, hang onto that,” Jon says dryly. “I think after Elias, the next head of the Institute could use a conscience like yours.”

Rosie laughs. “You’re too kind, Jon. Although,” she adds, nervously drumming her fingers against her arm, “it’s funny you should say that, because… well, I don’t actually _know_ who will be running the Institute with Elias… _indisposed.”_

Jon frowns. “You don’t?”

“I _don’t,”_ Rosie repeats, a note of panic in her voice. “I mean, once the police were done scouring Elias’ office for evidence, I went in there and looked through his desk for — for his planner, for an address book, _anything._ I could have _sworn_ he’d once mentioned a — a board of trustees or patrons or _something,_ so I thought if I could find contact information for anyone on it, they would know, but —” She throws up her hands. “It looks like it was just _him._ Him and him alone running the Institute —”

Suddenly, Rosie’s gaze flickers away, and she stops mid-sentence. Straightening up, she flashes a sunny smile somewhere to the right of Jon. “Morning! Can I help you?”

Perplexed, Jon turns around.

Standing just behind him is a strikingly tall woman with a face that could have been carved from marble. She is swathed in a cream-colored trench coat, and a white silk scarf is wrapped around her hair and tied under her sharp jaw. Between her impeccable appearance and her elegant bearing, Jon can’t help but be reminded of some forgotten film actress, just stepping off a flickering black-and-white screen.

But Jon also notices, a strange chill trickling down his spine as he does, that despite the miserably frigid rain that all but drowned him on his way into work this morning, neither her coat nor her scarf have a single drop of water on them.

The woman smiles back at Rosie. “Yes, I think you can.” Her voice is rich and throaty. “Would you be so kind as to point me to the office of the head of this Institute?”

If Rosie is taken aback by the request, she doesn’t show it. “I’m quite sorry,” she says, “but I’m afraid Mr. Bouchard isn’t available —”

“Well, I don’t anticipate that being an issue,” the woman says smoothly, “seeing as I _am_ taking over his office.” She holds out one hand; under the hem of her glove, her veins show, frost-blue, through her pale skin. “But how rude of me to not introduce myself. I’m Nora Lukas.”

Jon freezes.

 _Now_ Rosie looks surprised, but only for a moment. “My apologies, Ms. Lukas,” she says, as upbeat as ever. “I wasn’t told that a new head had been appointed quite so quickly.” She shakes Nora’s hand. “I’m Rosie. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Nora responds. “And please: call me _Nora.”_ Still smiling, she glances down at Jon. “And who might you be?”

Jon feels himself bristle at her tone, but he unclenches his jaw as best he can before responding. “Jonathan Sims,” he says curtly. “I’m the —” _Archivist_ is what almost slips out, but he corrects himself in time “— Head Archivist here at the Institute.”

Something sparks in Nora’s eyes — _recognition? curiosity? contempt?_ — but whatever Jon sees, it’s soon gone. “A pleasure to meet you, Jonathan,” she says, holding out her hand to him. “I was _so_ hoping to have the chance to speak with Gertrude’s heir.”

“Why is that?” Jon asks pointedly, not taking her offered hand.

Nora’s hand drops, but her smile doesn’t. “Why, to make sure you and I are on the same page,” she says. “I imagine you have many questions and even more concerns, and I’d like to try and set your mind at ease. After all,” she adds knowingly, “such a shift in power can be difficult to reconcile oneself with.”

Jon scowls. As little as he likes the idea of being in prolonged proximity to a Lukas — _it’s not_ just _Peter; there’s something deeply_ wrong _with the whole family —_ he has to admit, albeit grudgingly, that he _does_ have questions. 

(Granted, recording his statement, if he _does_ decide to carry on with that, will have to wait a little longer. But if Jon’s being honest, he could use the extra time to deliberate.)

“... I suppose,” he mutters.

“Excellent,” Nora says briskly. “Now, would you prefer to have that conversation in your Archives? Or in my office?”

“The latter,” Jon says immediately. _Between the Hive’s infestation last year and the Not-Them tearing through the trapdoor last week, I’d rather avoid a third supernatural intrusion for as long as possible._ “Weren’t you looking for it, anyway?” he adds, probably more snidely than is safe.

“I was,” Nora says. “How fortunate for me that you can escort me there.”

Jon barely suppresses a snort. “Not the word I’d use.” Turning on his heel with a sharp squelch of his wet shoes, he stalks — or rather, squishes — towards the stairs without waiting for Nora to follow.

 _Besides, I’m not forgetting the route up to Elias’ —_ that _office any time soon._

Aside from the absence of the antique carpet before the desk — and the large, muddy stain on the now-exposed floorboards — the office that used to belong to Elias is largely unchanged from the last time Jon was here. He would have thought the police would have taken more in the way of evidence, but Jon resolves not to delve too deeply into that. After all, Daisy had already grudgingly overlooked him taking Gertrude’s stolen files and tapes — and from what Rosie had told him of her strange behavior on Friday, Jon doesn’t think it wise to continue to test the limits of what little goodwill Daisy has.

Tentatively closing the door and trying not to startle at the _click_ of the lock, Jon watches Nora out of the corner of his eye. She hasn’t said a word since their initial meeting in the atrium, and she doesn’t speak now: just removes her gloves and her scarf and looks around the office with a coolly assessing eye.

Nora seems to pause, and Jon follows her gaze to the painting dominating the wall behind the desk. It depicts a group of men seated around a table, probably modeled after some Renaissance painting of the Last Supper; Jon recognizes the man seated at the center, if only because he’d just passed Jonah Magnus’ portrait in the hallway outside, but no one else.

It takes a moment for Jon to realize that Nora is looking at one man in particular: a bearded, broad-shouldered man, with a grimly stoic face. He stands just behind Magnus’ shoulder, wearing a dark suit that renders him almost invisible against the painting’s shadowy background. And between the pallid skin, the aristocratic profile, and the black hair and blacker eyes, the family resemblance between Mordechai and Nora is frankly uncanny.

Jon frowns. _How did I know that name?_

“I knew your family were patrons of the Institute, but I hadn’t guessed that the association extended so far back,” he comments, trying to shake off his unease. “Is that why you’re taking over for Elias now?”

Nora turns to face him, one eyebrow arched. “I do hope you have better questions than _that,_ Jonathan,” she remarks. “Otherwise, this might get tedious.”

“It’s just _Jon,”_ Jon says testily. “And you _did_ say you’d answer my questions, didn’t you? Regardless of how… ‘tedious’ they may get.”

“That I did,” Nora concedes. “Though I forgot how _seriously_ the promise of knowledge is taken by those belonging to Beholding.” She laughs, low and amused. “I can’t fault you for your nature, of course, but personally, I find more appeal in the uncertain.”

“‘Beholding’?” Jon repeats, his frown deepening. “You mean the Eye?”

“Beholding, the Eye, the Ceaseless Watcher, It Knows You…” Nora tuts, waving her hand dismissively. “So many concrete titles for the same slippery concept.” Undoing the belt on her trench coat, she shrugs it off and tosses her coat, gloves, and scarf onto the corner of the desk. “But again, I can’t fault you for that. Attempting to impose categories on chaos _is_ what you do here.”

“And what, exactly, do _you_ do?” Jon snaps. “If you and your family aren’t aligned with the Eye, then with _what?”_

Nora tilts her head, studying him. Not for the first time, Jon is struck by how unnaturally _pale_ she is, from her translucent skin to the white turtleneck and pencil skirt that wash out what little color remains in her complexion. Even her hair, as dark as it is, is shot through with a single white streak that curls over her left temple. She seems to glow with some sort of eerie luminescence: steady as a lighthouse beam, but strangely muted and misted-over.

 _Like she’s barely here at all._ Once again, Jon glances at the bone-dry coat and scarf and tries to ignore the fear continuing to slither down his spine. _Like she’s more phantom than human._

Nora smiles then, and for the first time, her smile shows teeth. “Well,” she says. _“That,_ Jon, is quite the question.”

Jon almost regrets asking in the first place. But the faint static still crackling in his ears from his question tells a different story.

Suddenly feeling unsteady, and supremely unsure of what else he _could_ do, Jon walks to the chair before the desk and all but collapses into it, letting his bag fall on the floor beside him.

Seemingly satisfied, Nora turns back to the desk. Reaching into a pocket in her coat, she pulls out a small, metallic object; it isn’t until she flips it open that Jon realizes it’s a silver cigarette case. “Would you care for one?”

Jon almost opens his mouth, then, remembering the general consternation when he’d mentioned taking up smoking again on Thursday, closes it. “No. Thanks,” he says shortly. “I’ve quit.”

“Fair enough.” Nora pulls out a single cigarette for herself, then reaches back into her coat pocket to swap out the cigarette case for a matching silver lighter. “I suppose you still have your health to consider.”

Jon eyes the lighter. “You’re not going to smoke in here, are you?”

“Unless you’d rather continue this conversation outside, I intend to do just that.” Crossing the uncarpeted floor, Nora unlatches one of the tall windows taking up the left-hand wall and nudges it open. A thin, cold sheet of wind blows through the crack, but no rain does. “I myself have no preference, but I imagine you do.”

Though the wind is cutting through his soaked jacket all over again, Jon reluctantly stays in his seat.

Leaning against the windowsill, Nora lights her cigarette, then puts down her lighter and takes a long, slow drag. Jon automatically wrinkles his nose before realizing that the smoke doesn’t smell quite like it should: not like the acrid chemical scent he’s accustomed to, but more like the salty mist of sea air.

“So,” Nora finally says, “how much has Elias told you?”

Jon snorts. “Next to nothing,” he says. “Everything I know about these — these _entities_ has come from other sources.”

Nora purses her lips. “Well,” she remarks, “I can’t say I’m surprised.” She takes another drag of her cigarette. “What have you learned, then?”

Jon shifts in his seat. “... Not much,” he admits. “I know about the Eye. Obviously.” He inhales; the chill air settles strangely in his lungs. “Plus… the Corruption. The Spiral. And the Stranger.” 

Nora’s brows rise.

Jon bristles at her silent judgement. “And the rituals,” he continues. “I know about those. _And,”_ he adds, “I know that the Stranger is preparing for its ritual. The Unknowing.”

Nora exhales, another plume of smoke snaking around her face. “Yes,” she says after a moment. “Indeed it is.”

“I have to — I _want_ to stop it. Somehow. But —” Jon almost throws up his hands, then realizes that they’re still numb from the cold. He quickly drops his hands back into his lap and starts rubbing them together, trying to coax feeling back into his fingers. “But I’m not sure how. _Yet._ I mean, we got Gertrude’s research back — the files and tapes that Elias stole when he murdered her — so there must be something in _there,_ if we just look. And, well…” Jon lets out a short, dark laugh. “Apparently, I’m the _Archivist,_ so… maybe I can use my powers to help? Probably not, but…”

Jon trails off, half-expecting Nora to have cut in by now. But Nora says nothing; just continues to smoke by the open window with a distant look on her face.

A new thought occurs to Jon. “Earlier, you called me Gertrude’s heir,” he says slowly. “Did you... know her?”

“Knew _of_ her,” Nora corrects. “Unlike the rest of my family, I made a point of keeping my distance from the Institute, and Gertrude Robinson especially.” Her tone is light, but her eyes remain unfocused. “Her reputation was rather fearsome… and well-deserved.”

“If that’s the case, then why are you here _now?”_ Jon asks pointedly.

Nora casts him a sidelong glance. “Instead of Peter, you mean?”

Jon shrugs, a little embarrassed. “I mean… _yes.”_

Nora sighs irritably. “I’ll admit, I’m partial to the boy, but he’s simply _not_ suited for this position. Even without his attachments getting in the way, Peter has had… _issues_ with being entrusted with matters of importance in the past.” A sour smile quirks the corners of her mouth. “Besides, we all have our little duties, Jon. Just as you have certain obligations to the Eye, as do I to my family. And to my god.”

“And what _god_ is that?” Jon retorts. “You still haven’t told me.”

“Oh, I think you’re _very_ close to putting the pieces together,” Nora says archly. “You certainly seem to know enough about my family.”

“I don’t,” Jon says, trying to ignore the chill continuing to creep over him, trying even harder to not look back at the painted visage of Mordechai Lukas. “Not really. But… there’s another member of your family I _do_ know something of.” He swallows. “Evan Lukas. Remember him?”

 _Now_ Nora turns her head to face him. “There’s no need to sound so confrontational,” she remarks. “But of course I remember him. Nathaniel’s youngest.” She takes another drag of her cigarette, then sighs out the smoke, sending it billowing across the office. “Such a shame, how he ended.”

“And how _did_ he ‘end’?” Jon asks harshly. Something _pops_ in his ears as his jaw snaps with the force of his question, sending a whine of static vibrating through his skull — 

— and then the static seizes up, stabbed through with a burst of ice that jolts through his teeth and up into his brain. Jon gasps, then coughs as the cigarette smoke — no, the _fog —_ begins to crawl into his mouth.

Through the fog, Nora’s black eyes are suddenly very hollow and _very_ cold. “Take care with your questions, Jon,” she says, almost chiding. “You wouldn’t want to overexert yourself, now would you?”

Jon tries to say something, _anything_ in response, but all that comes out is a thin wheeze. Feeling the fog fill his throat, he instead shuts his mouth and nods frantically.

Nora smiles, then stubs out her cigarette on the polished wood of the windowsill.

The fog dissipates instantly. Rubbing at his raw throat, Jon desparately gulps in the cold, but unclouded air.

(The thought occurs to him, then, whispering with icy certainty, that if he _had_ met his end here, no one would ever have known. Maybe not even _cared.)_

Nora flicks the cigarette into the wastebasket by the desk. “Now,” she says briskly. “I understand you want answers, Jon. Like I’ve said before, I don’t blame you for that. But we _were_ having a perfectly pleasant conversation before you tried — _again,_ I might add — to rip those answers out of my head.”

“I wasn’t _trying,”_ Jon snaps, but his voice is hoarse and weak. “It just —”

“— happened? Of _course_ it did, Jon.” Nora lounges against the windowsill. “That is the nature of the Eye, _your_ nature: to seek, to know, to lay bare. _But —”_ she raises a finger “— that is not _my_ nature.”

Jon laughs, short and humorless. “It’s _definitely_ not,” he says bitterly. “You, your family… you _hide:_ behind money, behind mouthpieces. You obscure, you avoid, you lead astray, you —”

 _There was no presence to it, though,_ he suddenly hears Naomi Herne insisting. _It wasn’t as though another person was there; it was —_ Her voice breaks, and a vivid memory of her drained, tear-streaked face flashes through his mind. _It made me feel utterly forsaken._

And then, Jon knows.

“That’s how you serve your — your _god,”_ he says quietly. “Isolation.”

Nora’s smile widens, showing teeth once again. “Others like you have called it Forsaken. The One Alone. The Wanderer.” She exhales; even with no cigarette in her hand, her breath still clouds the air before her. “Myself, I find that Smirke’s simple title captures its essence best: _the Lonely.”_

Jon fights the shudder that rolls over his skin at her rapturous tone. “Is that why Evan died?” he asks, wary of any tell-tell hum in his ears. “Because he wasn’t _alone?”_

“Close, but it wasn’t quite so simple as that.” Nora folds her hands before her. “You see, Evan had already scorned our family — a tragedy, to be sure, but it does happen now and again. But _then —”_ she scoffs “— he got _engaged._ To a lovely, lonely young woman who, by all rights, should have been part of the family that Evan left behind.” Her black eyes bore into him. “And _she,_ Jon, is why Evan had to die.”

Once again, Jon remembers Naomi and the unfathomable pain and loss in her voice as she poured out her grief to him, a perfect stranger, and his stomach twists in anger and horror. 

“If it eases your conscience,” Nora adds idly, “the extent of _my_ involvement was attending the funeral.”

“It doesn’t,” Jon snaps, glaring back at her. “Evan didn’t _have_ to die; his death wasn’t _nature._ It was your family’s _choice_ to take whatever choice he had away from him.”

Nora tilts her head. That old faintly amused look is returning to her face, but her eyes are still dark. “Is there a difference?” she asks. “Can you even _tell_ what the difference is for you?”

Before Jon can answer — if he even _has_ an answer to give — there is a knock on the office door.

Much to Jon’s profound relief, Nora’s gaze shifts. “Who is it?”

“Just me.” The voice is unfamiliar to Jon. “If you’re busy, I can come back later —”

“Of course not,” Nora dismisses, straightening up and smoothing out her skirt. “You know I always have time for you.” She shuts and latches the window, and then looks back at Jon. “Besides, there’s someone you should meet.”

Jon opens his mouth, but he’s once again cut off as the office door opens and closes behind him. Standing up, he warily turns around to see who’s there.

The newcomer is a short, slight woman, with freckled cheeks glowing with energy. Like Jon, she’s soaked from the rain, but unlike Jon, her cherry-pink raincoat has a hood; she pushes it back now to reveal hair dyed a pale, pretty lavender and gathered into two messy, uneven braids. Both of her ears glint with multiple piercings, and a horseshoe ring gleams from her nose. Jon has the strangest feeling he’s seen her before, though he can’t for the life of him say _where._

The woman’s gaze goes to him and she immediately perks up, as if she recognizes him as well. “Oh, hi!” she says cheerily. Her eyes are blue, and bright in a disconcertingly familiar way. “You’re the Archivist, right?”

Jon flinches.

“That he is,” Nora agrees, pacing closer to the two of them. “But just _Jon_ will do, Cassandra.”

“Oh! Shit. Okay.” The other woman — _Cassandra,_ Jon notes — looks a little embarrassed, but she recovers quickly. “Sorry,” she apologizes with a smile. “Just excited to meet you in person.”

“It’s fine,” Jon says shortly, nowhere near _fine_ himself. “Who are you?”

“I’m Cass.” Cassandra — _no, Cass —_ sticks out her hand eagerly. “I’m, ah, helping out Nora. Here. With the Institute.”

Jon doesn’t shake her hand either. 

Cass glances at Nora. “What did you do to him?” she asks, almost teasing. “He’s soaked to the bone.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Nora dismisses.

 _“That,_ anyway,” Jon mutters, rubbing at his still-sore throat. 

Cass just laughs. “Nora,” she chides, sidling up next to her, “play nice. We’re here to _help,_ remember?”

“‘Help’?” Jon echoes, looking incredulously between them. “With _what?”_

“Well, I hardly think _you_ want to be the next head of the Institute,” Nora says archly. “And you have a ritual to stop, do you not?”

Jon scowls. Nora’s not wrong, but he’s not about to admit that outright. “How do you intend to _help,_ then?” he asks, with as much dryness as he can muster.

 _“Now_ we’re getting somewhere,” Nora remarks. “As you’re aware, my family has a great deal of money and influence. And I can use both to your benefit: to help you in your endeavors against the Stranger _and_ to protect the Institute.”

“I can help, too,” Cass chimes in. “At least where research is concerned.” She flashes him a grin. “I mean, I’m no Archivist, but I’ll do what I can.”

Jon studies her for a moment. In stark contrast to Nora, ghostly and gleaming-white, Cass is colorful and corporeal. Still, there’s something about the keen, discomforting light in her eyes that gives him pause.

Then he recognizes what that light is — and in whose eyes he’s seen it before. 

“You’re… like me,” he says. _Or are you more like Elias?_

Cass hums noncommittally. “We-ell... you’re not _quite_ like me. Not yet. _But,”_ she adds, “even as I am now, I’ll never be as powerful as you _will_ be, Archivist — er, _Jon.”_ She shrugs. “So... I think it all balances out!”

Jon blinks, caught between confusion and concern.

Cass laughs again. “I mean… you’re not _wrong,”_ she says apologetically. “We both serve the Eye. But like I said, I’m no Archivist. We can see and know the same or similar things, but we have... different lenses and lines of sight, as it were.”

Jon settles for confusion. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Oh, don’t worry!” Cass assures him, her tone as bright as ever. “You’ll see it all, in time. I mean, I don’t know how much Elias showed you,” she amends, “but there’s plenty that _I_ could —”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Jon says flatly.

Cass glances up at Nora, eyebrows raised.

“Cassandra, please don’t frighten him,” Nora says, but the smile playing on her lips softens her stern tone. “After all, he has enough to be afraid of.”

Cass rolls her eyes. “Fair enough.”

“Besides you two?” Jon asks dryly.

“Oh, _definitely,”_ Cass says. “I mean, the Stranger’s _more_ than enough.” For the first time since entering the office, she seems to sober. “Nothing scarier than the unseen and unknown... especially for us.”

Nora hums in agreement, but her eyes are still dark.

Jon swallows. “So… that’s it?” he asks. “You keep the Institute safe and help me stop the Unknowing because — because _what?”_ He scoffs. “All this because _Elias_ demands it?”

“I wouldn’t say _that,”_ Nora says stiffly. “I’ll admit, filling this role was hardly my first choice, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make to stop the Stranger.”

“And the Stranger,” Cass adds, her face still serious, _“must_ be stopped.”

“How selfless,” Jon says sarcastically.

“Doubt us if you like, Jon, but the fact of the matter is, you _need_ us here,” Nora says. “With Elias gone, the Institute is intensely vulnerable to encroachment from other powers — and you alone don’t have the strength yet to protect this place, _or_ its people.” She places a hand on Cass’ shoulder, squeezing it slightly. “But Cassandra and I _do.”_

Jon almost retorts, but then hesitates. He remembers, all too well, the static rushing through his ears at his clear, cold command to Jane. He remembers his head swimming with the echoes of the Hive’s screaming as he collapsed on his hands and knees. And he remembers Martin’s arms tightening around him as he lay on the floor of the tunnels, limp and listless and staring helplessly at the door as the Not-Them began to tear it down.

 _They’re going to die here,_ he remembers thinking, despairing. _I tried so hard to do right by them, to keep them safe… and they’re going to die anyway._

 _And I can’t do a damn thing to save even_ one _of them._

Cass is idly drawing Nora’s hand across her shoulders, twining their fingers together, but her gaze is fixed on him with an uncanny intensity that takes Jon aback. Her eyes are _bright,_ so bright it feels as though she’s shining a light through to the back of his skull.

Trying not to look directly at her, Jon shifts his feet; his shoes are finally starting to dry, but they’re still damp. “And… if I _do_ accept your help?” he asks reluctantly. “What’s the catch?”

Nora laughs. “Why are you so certain there will be one?”

Jon glares at her.

“So suspicious!” Cass teases.

“Not without reason,” Jon says tightly.

Nora sighs. “Jon,” she says. “I understand your reluctance to work with me, given your grievances against my family. And I certainly don’t expect your reservations to vanish after a single conversation. All I ask,” she continues, eminently patient, “is that you keep Cassandra and I in mind, should you need our help.”

 _I don’t think I will,_ Jon wants to say, but he can’t seem to get the words out.

“And if it helps your decision,” Nora adds lightly, “it _does_ benefit us both to interact with each other as little as possible.” She smiles. _“You_ don’t want to see me… and _I_ do my best work out of sight.”

Jon snorts. “Well,” he says, leaning down to pick up his bag from where it had fallen next to the chair, “you’re right about that, at least.” With that, he brushes past Cass and Nora and heads for the door.

“Easy for _you_ to say, Nora,” Cass puts in. _“I_ need to see what I’m working with.”

“A fair point,” Nora concurs, something like indulgence in her voice. “Ah, Jon? Before you never speak to us again —”

His hand hovering over the doorknob, Jon reluctantly looks over his shoulder.

“Would you mind terribly if we were to drop by your Archives this afternoon?” Nora asks. “Perhaps meet your assistants, if you have any of those?”

“Does it matter if I _mind?”_ Jon asks bitingly.

Nora’s brows arch, but her eyes are dark and solemn. “Of course it matters,” she says. “Regardless of the consequences they bring down, your choices have great weight, Jon.”

Throat tightening, Jon turns his head back towards the door. _Then why,_ he wonders bitterly as he opens it, trying not to feel their eyes on his back as he leaves, _does it feel like I have no choice in any of this?_

Even back in the familiar territory of the Archives, as far away from that upstairs office as he could possibly get, Jon can’t help but feel more lost than ever.

Shutting his office door behind him, Jon peels off his wet coat and tosses it onto the coat rack. There’ll be no getting rid of Nora or Cass; despite his wishes to the contrary, he knows that. They’re clearly dangerous, and far more powerful than he is, and they could very likely do away with him — let alone Martin, or Tim, or Sasha, or Jane — without a second thought; he knows that, too. 

And as much as he doesn’t want to see it, Jon knows that they’re right about one thing, at least: that the Stranger is a far greater threat than Nora or Cass.

 _Even so: why would they offer to help?_ he thinks, dropping his bag and collapsing onto the couch. _I can understand Cass wanting to help; we’re both aligned with the Eye, and the Eye and the Stranger… seem to be opposed. But Nora…_ He frowns up at the ceiling, trying to work out _what_ makes him so uneasy. _She’s of the_ Lonely; _what does_ she _get out of this? Why intervention instead of isolation?_

_And is she really as reluctant to take over for Elias as she claims she is?_

Distantly, the door to the Archives creaks open.

Jon frowns up at the clock. It’s eight-thirty: far later than he intended on getting down here, but still far too early for anyone else to be here. For a moment, he thinks it could be Jane, but then he remembers that she’s no longer living in the Institute.

 _Nora, then. Or Cass._ With a huff, he stands up and grimly turns towards the door. _So much for the sanctity of my_ choices — _or them respecting them._

Another creak as the Archives door falls shut. “Hello?”

Heart leaping, Jon yanks his office door open and bolts outside.

Martin is shaking out a battered umbrella with one hand and very carefully balancing a tray of coffees — and pinning a paper bag with only his pinky to the underside of the tray — in the other. Then he realizes that Jon is there and looks up. “Uh — hi!” he says, his cheeks coloring. “I actually didn’t expect anyone to be here yet, but I — oh!”

Before he knows quite what he’s doing, Jon is across the floor and his arms are around Martin. Martin gives a small start, but after a beat, he lets his umbrella fall on the floor and wraps his now-free arm around Jon.

“... Hi,” Jon mumbles into Martin’s shoulder. Some warm feeling is flooding through him, and it takes Jon a moment to identify it not as the embarrassment he expects to feel, but _relief —_ though he’s not quite sure _what_ he’s relieved about.

“Hi,” Martin repeats, and Jon hears the smile in his voice loud and clear. “It’s... good to see you, too.” 

Jon feels his own face heat up; not for the first time in recent memory, he finds himself thinking back to Friday morning. How he’d woken up with his face smothered by Sasha’s couch and with his back warmed by Martin. How he’d worried over whether or not he’d thrashed around in his sleep as he seemed to do most nights nowadays, if his elbows had jabbed Martin’s soft stomach or if his spine had gouged a mark in Martin’s broad chest. How he’d squirmed around onto his other side to find Martin somehow still solidly asleep: still there with him.

It’s then that Jon realizes why he was so relieved, but it makes him tense once again just to think about it. Since leaving the upstairs office — _Nora’s_ office — he doesn’t think he’s seen a single person. And even before then, he hasn’t seen anyone since Friday, let alone _spoken_ to —

“Jon?” Martin prompts. “Everything okay?”

Letting go of Martin, Jon takes a step back and rubs at his suddenly-cold arms. “Um —” He glances down at the tray of coffees and the paper bag, both of which Martin is barely holding onto. “Oh, uh, let me help you with that —”

“I’ve got it.” Martin quickly goes to the nearest desk and puts down the tray and the bag, then doubles back to fetch his umbrella from the floor and prop it up to dry. “You like cheese and garlic bagels, right?” he asks. “I mean, you ate one last week, but —”

“I do, I do,” Jon says quickly. They’re not his absolute favorite kind of bagel, but if it’s what Martin brought, he will eat it gladly. “Thank you. Again.”

“Of course.” Martin hesitates, a familiar crease in his forehead. “You’re here… early,” he finally says. “Is something up?”

Jon blinks. With Nora’s arrival casually, catastrophically upending his morning, he’d almost forgotten why he’d been trying to get to work so early in the first place. Almost.

He’d been so _sure_ that giving his statement solo was the right choice. After all, he’d cloistered himself with that old fear for decades — what difference did it make to suffer through it for another day, just as alone and afraid now as he was then?

Jon thinks he can see the difference now. 

“I… _was_ going to record my statement,” he says slowly, making an effort to meet Martin’s gaze. “Alone.”

Martin cocks his head, looking slightly more confused than concerned.

Jon sighs. “I didn’t want any of you to hear me,” he confesses, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “I… didn’t want you to see me that way. And I —” He finally ducks his head, avoiding Martin’s eyes. “I didn’t know how it would feel. Giving a statement instead of _taking_ one. And I know how that sounds,” he adds, now more irritated with himself than anyone else. “I _know_ it was a stupid idea, but —”

“That’s not what I was thinking.” Martin takes a step towards him, one hand settling on his shoulder. “I... honestly think I would have done the same thing.”

Jon lifts his head, looking at Martin doubtfully. 

“Look, I get it,” Martin says. “I mean, I don’t know what it’s like to record statements, but… I _do_ know what it’s like to give one. You don’t. And that thought of losing control where you once had it… probably scares you.”

“That’s certainly one thing that does,” Jon remarks darkly. Then he pauses. “What _does_ it feel like?”

“Um…” Martin makes a face. “Honestly, the experience wasn’t _exactly_ what I was focused on at the time,” he says quickly. “I just… I just wanted to get it out, you know? I didn’t care about how strange it felt to actually give a statement of my own; all I cared about was telling someone my story. Someone who’d believe me.”

“You... thought I’d believe you?” Jon asks.

Martin flushes. “I mean… I _hoped_ you would. And when you _did,_ I —” He takes a deep breath. “Look: what happened to me was horrible. And giving that statement wasn’t the greatest, either. But knowing that you believed me and took my fear seriously…” He shrugs, giving Jon a sad little smile. “It didn’t make it all ‘worth it,’ but… knowing that _did_ make me feel a little bit better.”

“Knowing that you weren’t alone,” Jon says softly.

Martin nods.

Jon swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “I don’t think,” he says after a moment, “that I want to be alone for this, either.”

“Then you won’t be,” Martin says earnestly. He curls his hand a little more securely around Jon’s shoulder, looking him in the eye. “Even if you don’t want to wait for the others... I’ll still be here.”

Exhaling shakily, Jon leans back into Martin, resting his head on his shoulder. His eyes sting unexpectedly, but he just closes them, focusing instead on the steady warmth of Martin’s hand around his shoulder, anchoring him in place.

“So,” Martin finally says. “What do you want to do now?”

Jon reluctantly straightens up, but he doesn’t shake Martin’s hand from his shoulder. “I think I should probably wait for the others to get here as well,” he says. “Unfortunately, I have worse news to share than just my statement.” 

_“‘Worse’?”_ Martin echoes, alarmed. “Jon, what’s happened?”

Jon sighs. “The Institute has a new head,” he says tightly. “And who it is is as damn near close to a worst-case scenario as we imagined.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Threat of death, reference to a family’s murder of another family member as a means of control._
> 
> Naomi Herne's statement is [MAG 13: Alone](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_13:_Alone). Forsaken and The One Alone are both canonical titles for the Lonely, but The Wanderer is my own invention, inspired by that one painting that seems to have made it onto the cover of at least _one_ edition of literally _any_ Romantic-era philosophical work, [Caspar David Friedrich's _Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog (Der Wanderer über dem Nebelmeer)._](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wanderer_above_the_Sea_of_Fog)
> 
> (Also, if you're curious about how I came to that horrible conclusion about Evan's death, have [this meta](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/619774834361221120/evan-lukas-remember-him-now-nora-turns-her) that I wrote to get around my writer's block on this chapter!)
> 
> A brief, but important note: I did my best to stick to a semi-regular update schedule for ___[The Plague Upon the House](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20761388),_ and I'm going to try to do the same for this fic as well. However, please keep in mind that life — both my personal life and current events in general — is a Lot right now, so updates might not always be timely. (But rest assured, they _will_ be happening!)


	2. Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the statements of Tim Stoker and Jonathan Sims, and uncertain beginnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we launch into things, thank you to everyone who's commented, bookmarked, and left kudos thus far! I'm not going to lie, I was a little worried about springing another multi-chapter fic on readers, but I'm very glad to hear that you all are along for the ride!
> 
>  **Recommended Listening:** ["Keep You Safe" by The Crane Wives](https://youtu.be/ax7LaMVdhtM) (many thanks to [@avatarofthebeholding](https://avatarofthebeholding.tumblr.com/) for the song rec!) and ["Good Grief" by Bastille](https://youtu.be/3cWfqdtE7hM)
> 
> **_Content warnings are in the end notes._ **

“So... let me get this straight.” Tim ticks items off on his fingers as he continues. “One: Elias’ replacement is a Lukas. Two: said Lukas is in cahoots with _another_ avatar of the Eye. And three: they claim they’re on our side because they can help us stop the Unknowing, _and_ protect the Institute from… _whatever’s_ looking to take a swing at us now that Elias is out of the picture.” Dropping his hand, he looks over at Jon. “Am I missing anything?”

Slumped behind his desk, Jon shrugs tiredly. “No, I… think you’ve about covered it.”

Tim glances over at Martin, sitting wan and worried in the chair in front of Jon’s desk. _At least we don’t have to deal with Peter,_ he thinks darkly, but he doesn’t say it aloud. With all the grim faces surrounding him, something tells Tim that even gallows humor won’t lift the mood in Jon’s office right now. 

From beside him on the couch, Sasha speaks up. “What entity did Nora say she and the Lukases served, again?” she asks. 

“She called it the Lonely.” Jon props his elbows up on his desk, one hand rubbing at the hollow of his throat. “From what I could piece together, it’s a fear that feeds off isolation and avoidance. Total alienation from other people.”

Next to Sasha, Jane raises her eyebrows. “... And you went up to talk with her,” she says flatly. “Alone.”

“Well, I hardly knew what she was at the time,” Jon retorts. “And I wouldn’t have found out anything useful if I _hadn’t_ gone.”

Jane concedes his point with a shrug, but she hardly seems reassured.

“But you’re all right?” Sasha asks anxiously. “Neither of them...” She trails off, swallowing. “You’re not hurt?”

For a split-second, Jon’s hand stills over his throat, but then he shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says shortly. “A bit unsettled, I suppose, but I’m fine.”

Tim doesn’t believe him. But he keeps that thought to himself, too. 

“We don’t believe them, right?” he says instead, leaning over his knees. “Even if the Lukases _weren’t_ tight with Elias, there’s no way that one of them’s offering to help us purely out of the goodness of their heart. There’s got to be a catch _somewhere.”_

“And I told Nora as much,” Jon says tightly. “Granted, I probably should have expressed in less uncertain terms that I did _not_ want her or Cass anywhere near the Archives, but —” He huffs, clearly frustrated. “Well. If they choose to ignore that, I can’t exactly do anything to stop them.”

Martin looks like he wants to say something — if Tim had to guess, something cheering to paint over the harsh reality of what they’re facing — but he keeps quiet instead, nervously gnawing on his lip.

“But… we’re not letting _them_ stop _us,_ right?” Tim persists. “With or without them, we’re still trying to stop the Unknowing.”

“Of _course_ we are,” Jon says. “That hasn’t changed. The scope of what we’re researching has just… expanded a bit.”

Sasha frowns, suddenly wary.

 _That_ gets Martin to speak up. “Jon,” he asks pointedly, “you’re not thinking of investigating Nora and Cass, are you?”

 _“No,”_ Jon says defensively. 

Jane says nothing, but her stare grows even more doubtful. Tim’s right there with her — even if Jon hadn’t denied it so quickly, his poker face has always been rubbish at best. 

Jon sighs. “... Fine, _maybe,”_ he admits, throwing up his hands. “It’s just… we _still_ don’t know much about the Lukases, we know next to nothing about Nora, and we know absolutely nothing about Cass. And they probably know _everything_ about us.” He swallows. “I — I don’t know; I just _really_ don’t like the thought of that.”

“And I don’t either,” Martin says. “But you said it yourself, Jon; these women are _dangerous._ If they find out we’re —”

“Then we make sure they _don’t_ find out,” Tim says. “Look, I’m with Jon on this one,” he adds off of Martin’s disbelieving look. “We need to know who they are and what they’re up to, or we risk a real nasty surprise in the future.”

“Easier said than done,” Martin retorts. “Elias’ sight is… I mean, it’s seemingly without scope. Who’s to say that Cass’ sight isn’t similar, if she’s here to help out Nora?”

“But there have got to be ways for us to counteract that, somehow,” Sasha says. “Elias might have seen a lot, but he can’t see _everything._ I mean, he couldn’t —” She inhales, steadying herself. “He… told me he’d had trouble. Spying on the Institute. When the Not-Them was still in Artifact Storage. It could cloud his sight, somehow.”

Tim glances over at Sasha. It’s the first time she’s brought up anything about what happened to her last Thursday night, and though she says it evenly enough, her face is drawn and tense and her hands are curled tightly in her lap.

Tim forces himself to swallow the anger suddenly scalding his throat. If killing Elias hadn’t meant killing them all, and if Jane hadn’t taken the first swing at him, Tim sure as hell wouldn’t have hesitated in taking the second.

Jon just nods thoughtfully. “And he _was_ surprised by us coming through the Distortion’s corridors,” he adds. “Michael did tell us that he was difficult for Elias to see.”

“And Elias said the same.” Sasha’s hands clench a little more. “I guess it makes sense that — that entities dealing in unreality would make clear sight a challenge; Leitner _did_ say that the Spiral and the Stranger were —”

 _“Leitner,”_ Jane says suddenly. “Of _course.”_

Jon frowns. “‘Of course’… _what?”_ he prompts.

“The _tunnels.”_ There’s a grim spark in Jane’s dark eyes as she leans in. “The Eye can’t see down there. Not the Hive, not Leitner. Not _us.”_

Jon’s frown deepens. Martin has long since stopped chewing on his lip, but he still looks uncertain.

“I know. I don’t want to go back down there, either,” Jane says, an edge to her voice. “But... it might be a good idea, for a little while. At least until we learn how Cass _sees.”_

Tim jumps in. “We can still do our research for the Stranger and the Unknowing up here in the Archives; that’s what Nora and Cass will be expecting us to do,” he says. He can’t say he’s all that eager to descend into the tunnels again, but Jane’s hit upon a loophole that they can’t afford to ignore. “But for any research related to Nora or Cass, we take it underground. Figuratively _and_ literally,” he adds.

Jon almost smiles, but his gaze is still sober.

“At least we’ll have _some_ precautions, I suppose,” Martin says hesitantly. “If we’re going to do this. Which…” He sighs. “I mean, I guess we _are_ doing this, aren’t we?”

“We are,” Jon confirms. He reaches out across the desk, towards Martin. “But we’ll do it together.”

Martin grips Jon’s hand tightly. “Together,” he says, and it sounds like a promise.

Sasha nods, but she’s still sitting far too stiffly for her. Then Jane squeezes her shoulder without a word, and the last of Sasha’s tension finally drains away.

Tim takes a deep breath, one that he hopes will steady him, too. “So,” he says, standing up from the couch and clapping his hands together, “where do we start?”

“... Well,” Jon says slowly. “I was… planning to give my statement.” Reluctantly letting go of Martin’s hand, he pulls the tape recorder at the corner of his desk over to him, then peers back up at Tim. “Were you…?”

The breath Tim had taken is instantly torn from him, and he feels himself sway on his feet for a moment before he remembers how to stand. _Right,_ he hears himself think, light and color swimming in front of his eyes. _Knew there was a reason I was dreading Monday more than usual._

“Tim?” Someone touches his hand, limp by his side. _“Tim?_ Are you all right?”

Just as quickly as he’d left, Tim is jolted back into himself. Furiously blinking, he jerks his head down and sees Sasha staring up at him, her gaze concerned.

He tries to smile at her, but it feels wrong on his face. “Just _grand.”_

Sasha’s expression doesn’t change. Tim’s almost disappointed, though he’s not sure if it’s because he didn’t convince her, or because he can’t even convince himself. _Hell, could be both._

“Tim,” Jon says, quiet but firm. “I appreciate you offering to — to stand in solidarity with me; I really do. But I’m not going to make you give a statement if you don’t want to.”

“I told you I’d give it, okay?” Tim says sharply. “Look, we all know we can’t keep hiding these things from each other. And _I’m_ not going to keep demanding that you or Sasha or whoever tell us all _their_ secrets while I don’t say a word about —” His breath catches in his throat before he can finish, choking on that long-unspoken name. 

Jon stares at him for a long time. It’s a familiar intensity, but there’s something about his gaze that makes Tim unaccountably uneasy right now. “Would it help,” he says, “if I asked?”

“‘Asked’?” Tim echoes. “In what — ?” He stops again, his mind finally catching up to his mouth. “... Like in an Archivist way, you mean.”

Jon’s gaze shifts guiltily. 

Tim swallows. He remembers, then, how Sasha had looked as she’d given Jon her statement last Thursday: her body taut and shaking like a wire stretched too thin, with only her mouth completely unfettered as her pent-up words tumbled off her tongue. He’d been consumed with his own shock and bitterness at what she was saying to pay too much attention to how unsettling it all was in the moment, but _now —_

“You’re right,” Jon says, despite Tim not saying anything. “It’s... not a good idea.” He still isn’t looking at Tim. “We don’t know exactly what me being _Archivist_ entails, and even if we did, I don’t want to use that power on —”

“I could ask.” 

Tim looks back down at Sasha.

“I’m not the Archivist,” Sasha says quietly, “but I — I can still _ask,_ the same way Jon does. To some extent.” She squeezes his hand slightly. “I’m not sure if it would be any better than Jon asking, but… it’s an option, if you want it.”

Tim considers it. It’s still not a comforting idea, no matter _who_ asks him, but if it stops his feet from getting any colder — 

“Okay,” he says dully, sinking back down on the couch beside her. “Let’s give it a shot.”

Sasha slowly nods, then she glances over at Jon. “Jon, you’ve got the recorder; can you —?”

“Oh, right. Yes.” Jon hits a button, and the tape recorder whirs to life.

Shifting her position on the couch to face him, Sasha takes both of his hands in hers. Her expression is serious, but there’s a flicker of fear in her eyes.

“Go ahead,” Tim says. He tries to smile again, tries to reassure both of them. _This is Sasha,_ he tells himself. _She’s your friend. She’s the last person who’d ever hurt you._

_She knows some of it already. How hard could it be to tell her the rest?_

Sasha inhales. “Tim,” she says, and her voice is quiet, but clear as a ringing bell. “Can you tell me about what happened to Danny?”

 _Danny._ Tim’s jaw drops open just hearing the name. 

“Sure,” he hears himself saying through the haze of static in his ears. He clears his throat, even though he strangely knows he doesn’t need to do that for him to be heard. “Statement of Timothy Stoker. On the disappearance of — of my brother. Danny.”

Tim doesn’t know how long he’s sat there, spinning out his awful story under Sasha’s steady gaze with his hands shaking in her grasp. But he _does_ know when the tape recorder stops running.

Jon’s trembling hand falls away from the _STOP_ button. “I think,” he says, his voice strained, “that’s enough of that.”

Sasha’s grip on his hands slackens. Her face is ashen, but behind her glasses, her eyes are bright. 

Tim sucks in a breath, acutely aware of the air scraping its way down his raw throat. “Well,” he says with all the dryness he can muster, “that _sucked.”_

Sasha bites her lip, and the brightness in her eyes is suddenly snuffed out.

Tim sighs. “Not — not you,” he says. “You were trying to help. And the talking helped. I think.” He rubs one goosebump-covered forearm. “Everything I was talking _about,_ though...”

Jon nods, but his face is still stricken. “God, _Tim —”_ he breathes. “I’m so sorry. Looking at your CV, I never _imagined —”_

“Well, that _was_ the idea,” Tim says wryly. “And it’s not like I told my old boss that I was flushing a promising publishing career down the drain because I wanted to hunt down a creepy Victorian murder clown.”

“‘Victorian’?” Martin asks, a furrow in his brow. “How do —”

“I did get _somewhere,_ when I was first starting out. Landed a lead, but… couldn’t figure out how to follow up on it,” Tim says tiredly. “That clown was Joseph Grimaldi. A Covent Garden Theatre regular.” He snorts. “Or... something wearing his face.”

“Like the Not-Them,” Sasha says quietly. “How it wanted —” She swallows, unable to continue. 

Tim’s hands drop into his lap as he stares at her, that hissing voice in the tunnels that was Danny and _not_ Danny snaking through his head again. _Skin,_ he thinks numbly. _They wanted skin. They wanted to look like people. Act like them.  
_

 _... But not_ quite. 

“The Stranger,” he says. “The Not-Them, the — the thing pretending to be Grimaldi, they — they’re both with the Stranger.” _The same entity that we’re trying to stop._

“I… think that’s a reasonable conclusion to make, yes.” Suddenly, Jon’s expression darkens even more. “That circus statement —”

“Leanne Denikin’s?” Tim interrupts. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s connected as well — I mean, didn’t you stop to wonder _why_ I had all the books on spooky circuses checked out of the Institute’s library?”

“Not that one,” Jon says hastily, “although considering that very same steam organ is currently locked up _very_ tightly in Artifact Storage —”

(“God, _really?”_ Martin says, dismayed.

“Of _course_ it is,” Jane mutters.)

“ — I’m inclined to agree that there’s a connection,” Jon finishes. “But there’s another statement about that — that Circus of the Other.” He pauses. “One that Gertrude recorded.”

 _“What?”_ Tim says, trying not to sound too accusing. “When was this?”

“It was the first tape Basira gave me, from the boxes of tapes found with Gertrude’s body,” Jon says defensively. “I — I didn’t think much of it at the time, since it didn’t seem to add anything to my investigation into her murder, but _now —”_

“Yeah, it sure is relevant now,” Tim says dryly. “I mean… if _Gertrude_ was looking into the Circus, they’ve _got_ to be involved with the Stranger. _And_ the Unknowing.”

“We should keep going through those tapes, then,” Jane says. “We’re bound to find something useful somewhere in there.”

“And in… just about everything of Gertrude’s we took from Elias’ office,” Martin adds. 

Jon grimaces. “Clearly, we have a lot to sift through,” he comments. “We’re going to need a way to keep track of everything.” 

“Why not go full-scale conspiracy board, red string and all?” Tim suggests, cracking a smile. “Worked well enough for us when we were still in Research.”

Much to his surprise and relief, Sasha laughs a little. “It’s... certainly appropriate.”

“Fantastic,” Tim says. “I’ll pop up to Research some time today and steal the largest cork board they have.” He pauses. “Wait, is the lift to the basement still out?”

“Tim, the lift’s been out for as long as we’ve worked down here,” Sasha says.

“All right: the largest cork board I can maneuver down the stairs without falling and dying, then,” Tim amends. “Martin, got any yarn you’re not using?”

Martin blinks. “I’ll check what I have and bring in some options tomorrow,” he says. “I... don’t think I have red, though. Magenta maybe, but not red.”

“As long as it’s bright and won’t unravel easily, we can use it.” Tim pauses. “Wait... this is your first conspiracy board, isn’t it?”

“It’s not something we generally did in the library,” Martin says. “So: yes.”

“I’ve never done one, either,” Jane adds. “For… obvious reasons.”

“Oh, you two are in for a _treat,”_ Tim says, gleefully rubbing his hands together. “I’ll admit, using them gets tricky when you have evidence that you can’t exactly pin to a board, but they do provide a really nice visual.”

“I’m glad you’re all so excited about this,” Jon says wearily, “but just remember _why_ we’re putting it together in the first place.”

Tim feels a muscle in his jaw twitch as his mood turns. “Trust me, Jon: I’m _not_ going to forget.”

Jon instantly looks ashamed. “I — um — right.” Averting his gaze, he hits the _EJECT_ button on the tape recorder and removes the tape. 

“Mind if I keep that?” Tim asks suddenly. “I… don’t really want that going into the Archives proper.”

Jon looks up, wide-eyed and startled. “... Of course,” he says after a moment. “Yes, of course.” He holds out the tape.

Tim leans forward and takes it; it feels far too heavy for something so small. “Thanks.”

Jon nods. Pulling open one of his desk drawers, he retrieves another tape. Tim almost asks if it’s Gertrude’s tape about the Circus, but when Jon puts it in the recorder, he then remembers that Jon has yet to record his own statement.

“You don’t have to do this, either, you know,” he says. He knows it won’t change Jon’s mind, but Tim feels that it’s worth saying all the same. “Just because I pushed myself through it —”

Jon’s already shaking his head. “But you did it for me,” he says. “I’m not going to leave you alone in that choice now.” Hand poised over the tape recorder, he glances at Sasha.

“Do you really want me to ask?” Sasha already sounds resigned to it.

Jon’s mouth tightens. “I — I should know,” he says. “What it feels like.”

Sasha stares at him, aghast. _“Jon —”_

“Sasha, _please,”_ Jon says, a note of desperation in his voice. “It’s already been hard enough for me to get to a place where I _can_ talk about it, but I still need to actually _talk.”_

Sasha doesn’t look any more convinced, but she nods. Straightening up on the couch, she pushes her hair back behind her shoulders, then presses her hands down into her lap, the uncertainty slowly erasing itself from her face.

Then: “Jon.” There it is again: that quiet, clear bell of a voice that pushes up goosebumps on Tim’s skin all over again. “Can you give us your statement?”

Jon stiffens, as if trying to repress a shiver. Then he turns on the tape recorder. “Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, London.” He swallows, and Tim sees the fear growing in his eyes. “Regarding a — a childhood encounter with a book formerly possessed by Jurgen Leitner.”

After Jon finishes his statement, Martin can’t turn off the tape recorder fast enough. He’d probably damaged the mechanism of the _STOP_ button with how hard he’d jabbed it, but that’s not his primary concern right now.

Jon lets out a long, shuddering sigh, his head collapsing into his hands. Rising from his seat, Martin walks around to the other side of the desk and, with only a moment of hesitation, places a hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon’s shoulders slump, but he doesn’t shake off Martin’s hand: only shifts his own hands to anchor it in place.

Surprisingly, Jane breaks the silence first. “Small wonder you hate spiders.”

Jon chokes out a short, humorless laugh. “I — I was never very comfortable with them to begin with,” he admits, “but after _that —”_

“Jon, I’m _so_ sorry,” Martin blurts out. 

Puzzled, Jon cranes his neck to look up at him. “About what?”

Martin stares at him, his horror at his own past actions mounting. “About all those times I — I _dismissed_ your fear of spiders?” he says. “About all those times I tried to convince you that spiders were _good,_ and had a place in the ecosystem and — and —”

“Martin —” Jon tries.

“Oh my God, the _Halloween decorations,”_ Martin groans. “I put up those — those tacky fake cobwebs, and you wouldn’t even go _near_ that corner of the Archives the entire month! And then you told me to take them down and I —”

 _“Martin.”_ Jon’s hands wind around his hand a little more securely. “Martin, you didn’t _know.”_ He smiles, but it’s too despairing to be a real smile. “I mean… how _could_ you? I — I’ve _never_ talked about this; you all are the first people I’ve ever told —”

 _“Still,”_ Martin insists. “I — I shouldn’t have pushed it. And I’m sorry.” _I should have paid more attention. I should have figured out that something was wrong._

Jon’s smile grows a little less sad. 

“I’m sorry, too, Jon,” Sasha says quietly. “Reading a Leitner is —” She swallows. “I mean, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Especially not one like _that._ And especially not _you.”_

Tim nods in silent agreement, but there’s a strange look on his face: one that Martin swears is regret. _But over_ what?

“I — thank you,” Jon says quietly. “And thank you for — for _asking.”_ He peers over the desk at her, suddenly concerned. “Are you… feeling all right? After that?”

“Um...” Despite how drained she looks, Sasha shrugs and smiles. “Yeah. Little tired, maybe, but nothing coffee and getting outside at lunch won’t fix.”

“Want to stretch your legs and help me steal that cork board from Research, then?” Tim offers. “I mean, no time like the present.”

Sasha’s smile shifts into something a little more genuine and a lot more grateful. “Absolutely.” She glances beside her. “Jane, do you —?”

“Yes.” Jane is already standing and opening the office door.

Sasha looks back at Jon. “I… guess we’re going to get that cork board, then,” she comments, standing and following Jane out.

Jon blinks. “Oh, uh — all right.”

“Don’t worry!” Tim says a little _too_ brightly, getting to his feet. “We’ll get that cork board down the stairs in one piece if it’s the last thing we do.” And with that, he makes his exit and closes the office door behind all three of them.

Jon slumps over his desk; _now_ Martin’s hand slips off his shoulder. “I — I shouldn’t have pushed Sasha like that,” he says quietly. “Or Tim.”

“You didn’t push anything,” Martin says. He considers putting his hand back on Jon’s shoulder, but dismisses it as too awkward, too insistent. “They made their choices, and their choices were to support you.”

Jon lets out a soft snort. “Does that change anything?” he asks. “I mean, what do our choices really _mean,_ Martin? Can any good end be worth bad means?”

Martin frowns. “Come again?”

Jon sighs again, collapsing back against his chair. “Nothing,” he says. “Just… thinking about something that was said to me.”

Martin stays silent, not quite sure how to respond.

Jon swivels his chair around to face Martin. “Saying all this out loud,” he says slowly, “I — I’ve realized that, since then, I’ve lived with this terrible _feeling._ The feeling that if that boy hadn’t gotten involved, he might still be alive.” His already-unhappy expression becomes even bleaker. “Or if _I_ had been able to face that — that _thing_ myself, I could have saved him.”

Martin stares at him, stunned. “Jon,” he says. “You were —”

 _“Eight,_ I know,” Jon mutters. “What _could_ I have done, even if I _had_ known what I was facing? Which I _still_ don’t,” he adds.

“But we’re going to find out,” Martin insists. “We’re going to learn all there is to know about these entities, and their rituals, and _everything._ And we’re going to use that knowledge to — to save the world.” He gives Jon what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “I mean... _that_ choice matters, right? It has to.”

Jon stares up at him, his gaze still uncertain, but growing clearer. “I — I think it does,” he says. “I hope it will.”

Martin nods mutely. He realizes then, embarrassment creeping in, that he’s been standing too close to Jon for far longer than usual; he half-expects Jon to have said something by now. “Uh... do you want any tea?” he asks automatically.

He isn’t expecting Jon to jolt upright in his seat, as if he’s just remembered he left the stove on. “I suppose — actually, I —” he stammers. “Well, _yes —_ but actually —”

“I mean, it’s no big deal if you _don’t_ want one,” Martin says quickly, placatingly. “I was just going to put on the kettle, and I always like asking if anyone else besides _me_ wants tea; I mean, I hardly want to be _rude_ and —”

“Do you want to get lunch?”

Martin’s train of thought slams on the brakes, derails, then tumbles off a cliff.

“It doesn’t have to be today,” Jon adds, still stumbling over his words a bit. “Or this week. Or at all, if you don’t want to. I just thought…” He takes a deep breath, making eye contact with Martin. “Well. We haven’t really _talked_ since Thursday, and… _everything._ So…”

 _Lunch,_ Martin thinks dazedly, his head still spinning. _Me._ Jon.

 _Wait._ He frowns, realizing something else. _Talking? Thursday? Talking about Thursday. What about Thursday? What about me and Jon and Thursday?_

And _then_ Martin remembers exactly _what_ happened on Thursday. Or at least, the events of Thursday that Jon is most likely referring to. 

And everything he’d confessed to Jon, about his feelings for Jon, _on Thursday._

“Jon?” he blurts out. “Are you inviting me on a date?”

Jon freezes.

 _Oh no,_ Martin thinks. _Oh_ no.

“I mean, it’s okay if it’s not,” he adds hastily. “A date, that is. I’d still love — er, _like_ lunch. Eating it. With you, I mean. And I get it. Even if I like you and you like me, we’re still co-workers —” He laughs awkwardly. “Actually, you’re technically my _boss,_ so I guess that makes it a little more weird —”

Jon’s hand wraps around his own hand. Surprised at the sudden, but gentle touch, Martin stops mid-sentence.

“Martin,” Jon starts. “I —” He clears his throat and straightens up, regaining some of his usual stiffness, but his gaze is still soft. “I… would very much like you to join me for lunch sometime. As a date.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat.

“If... that’s something you’d like to do,” Jon amends, his expression worried.

Too overwhelmed to speak for a moment, Martin just squeezes Jon’s hand. _“Yes,”_ he finally manages. “I — I’d _really_ like that.”

 _“Oh.”_ Jon visibly perks up. “Is… this afternoon too sudden?”

Martin feels a smile spreading across his face. “I don’t think so?”

“Oh. Good.” And then Jon smiles: _actually_ smiles.

Martin feels his heart skip a beat at the sight. It’s a poetic cliche; he knows that — _but those exist for a reason, don’t they?_

“And… Martin. If it makes you feel better,” Jon continues, that rare, wonderful smile turning charmingly wry, “I think we have _much_ bigger things to worry about right now than Institute HR.”

Martin laughs. “I guess,” he admits sheepishly. “But…” He’s smiling now, too; he can feel it and it feels _good._ “I’m not going to worry about any of those other things until after lunch.”

“Seriously, Sasha: how _are_ you feeling?”

Sasha falters, almost catching one foot under the wheel of the cork board stand, but she recovers quickly. “Really, Tim, I’m _fine,”_ she says. “Like I said: just a little tired.”

Tim gives her a dubious look around the other side of the cork board. _“Sasha —”_

 _“Tim,”_ Sasha says firmly, struggling to keep the cork board rolling along. “Look, I — I appreciate you asking, but —”

“I didn’t even _know_ you could do what Jon does,” Tim says. “How long _have_ you been able to do that, anyway?” _How long have you been keeping_ this _secret?_

Sasha swallows. “Not long. Not as far as I know,” she says quietly. “I’ve only ever _compelled_ someone on accident, but _now —”_

“ — you’ve done it, and _meant_ to do it.” Jane grabs the frame of the cork board, holding it in place and halting both Sasha and Tim, her face gravely concerned. _“Twice.”_

“I _know,_ Jane.” Sasha exhales hard, her hands clenching around the cork board. “I know I shouldn’t have done it; I shouldn’t have _asked —”_

“No, _we_ shouldn’t have asked you in the first place,” Tim cuts in. “And I shouldn’t have let you. I mean,” he says, trying not to sound so harsh, “I remember how _wretched_ Jon looked when he first started recording statements; it must be awful for you —”

“It isn’t.” 

Tim frowns, taken aback. “What do you —?”

“It _isn’t,”_ Sasha repeats, with far more urgency. “I feel — I mean, it’s draining, at first. But… then I feel _fine._ I feel —” She stops, her face pale and her eyes bright.

Tim’s stomach turns at the sight. Still, he has to know. “You feel…”

“I feel _good,_ Tim.” Sasha’s mouth twists. _“Sated._ And you —” She takes a trembling breath. “You don’t get _anything_ out of me asking you to talk: not even the relief of talking. Just — just the _fear_ of my question.”

Tim wishes he could tell Sasha that she’s wrong, that she had _helped_ him: just as she always had, just as she probably always would. But the way the light of the atrium reflects in her bright eyes reminds him of the burning heat and color of stage lights, illuminating imperfect skins and hastily-painted faces, and the words shrivel and die in his mouth.

A scarred, slightly-too-cool hand nudges his grip on the cork board loose, and Tim realizes that Jane’s taking it from him. “I can help her get this downstairs,” she tells him in an undertone. “I think Sasha needs to —”

“Yep. Right,” Tim manages. “No problem.”

Jane nods, her eyes dark. Then she wheels the cork board around, rolling her end towards the basement stairs first, with Sasha, once at the front, now following her without protest. Tim watches them pick up the cork board’s frame and start carrying it, one halting step at a time, down the stairs, and then they are lost to his view.

Tim swallows. _Jane’s got this,_ he tries to tell himself. _She can talk Sasha through this; she knows what it’s like to be — to be like_ that. 

Still. He’s been shut out, again — but this time, knowing _why_ Sasha isn’t opening up to him doesn’t make it any easier.

Turning away from the basement stairs, Tim drifts back across the atrium: not to the stairs leading to higher levels, but to one of the twin hallways on this level. He wanders down to where the hallways bend and meet, to the wooden double doors, and peers through the warped glass panes. Despite the lingering mist, this morning’s rain seems to have stopped, so he wrenches open one of the doors and steps outside.

When Tim first started working at the Institute, he couldn’t believe that more of his coworkers wouldn’t take their lunches outdoors and into the back courtyard. As small as it is, shrunk even further by the high brick walls sequestering it from the street, the courtyard is strangely picturesque. Cobblestone paths ring well-pruned bushes and low-growing flowers, leading to a quietly bubbling stone fountain at the center of the courtyard’s garden. Between the spreading branches of a single sturdy planetree and the shadow of the Institute itself, the courtyard is always cool and dappled in shade, even in the hottest of summers. Aside from what suspiciously looks like an old, burned-in scorch mark at the base of the wall in the garden’s far corner, the courtyard seems a surprisingly pleasant place, especially considering it’s the Institute’s.

It had taken Tim a few months of solo lunches to realize why the Institute’s employees never lingered in the back courtyard. There was no gate leading out to the street: just uniform, unbroken wall fencing the whole courtyard in. The only way in and out of the courtyard was through the Institute itself.

Tim snorts. _Fitting._ He meanders down the path to the fountain and sits on its broad edge; the stone is mostly dry, but its chill cuts through to his bones. _No way out unless Elias dies… and even then, we’d all leave in body bags._

It had all turned out so terribly ironic. He’d come to the Institute in the first place to get answers, maybe even justice if he could, but all he’d gotten was complacent, comfortable, _forgetful._ And now, he could get both answers and justice, at the cost of never leaving and always _knowing_ that there would always be more horrors out there than could be fathomed: always more to watch him, always more to fear.

Sasha’s bright eyes swim back into his memory again, and Tim drops his head into his hands, blinking past the sudden stinging of his own eyes. He’s never forgotten Danny. He’s never stopped missing him, never stopped wishing he could have sat up with him until sunrise instead of falling asleep and letting them both slip into a nightmare there was no waking up from. But, as ashamed as he is to admit it to himself, he _had_ forgotten how much it had _hurt_ to lose him: first the confusion, then the panic, then the horror, then the _fear —_

— and then nothing. Just him, alone in front of the Royal Opera House with the night air freezing the tears on his face and the only evidence he had crumbling to ash in his hands. Just him, alone in a room full of eyes that should have felt friendlier, with the air hissing with the slow, deliberate spooling of the tape recorder.

Just him. Alone.

“Are you quite all right?”

Tim’s head jerks up. 

Standing on the main path to the fountain is a tall, pale, dark-haired woman dressed all in white. 

Tim eyes her suspiciously. Jon hadn’t described the new head of the Institute when he’d given his brief account of his morning, but Tim has a pretty strong suspicion that she is who he’s looking at. “You must be the new boss,” he states flatly.

The pale woman smiles. “I am indeed,” she says. “And you must be one of Jon’s assistants.” She tilts her head, studying him with a strangely lightless gaze. “Are you Martin Blackwood, or are you Timothy Stoker?”

Tim straightens instantly, his shoulders stiffening. “How did you —?”

“I’m planning on touring the different departments of this Institute this afternoon, so I familiarized myself with the organizational chart,” Nora says smoothly. “Say what you will about Elias, but the man was nothing if not thorough.”

 _Trust me: I’m_ sure _you don’t want to hear what I have to say about Elias._ “Not planning to visit the Archives, are you?” Tim asks darkly.

“Oh, I’m not,” Nora says. “Jon made his opinion on my presence there very clear, and I intend to respect it. I’ve never had trouble keeping my distance, and that’ll hardly change now.” She pauses. “Cassandra, on the other hand, has never been very good with boundaries, but I’ll try to rein her in.”

Tim snorts. “Yeah, well. Try harder.” He stands up, heading past Nora towards the door back into the Institute.

Nora slightly shifts her weight to one leg, but doesn’t directly step into his way. “Have you also had prior experience with my family?” she asks. “You and Jon seem similarly… _reluctant_ to associate with me.”

Tim pauses mid-step, remembering Jon’s fingers frozen over the hollow of his throat, and his jaw tightens. “Wonder why _that_ could be.”

Nora smiles that same closed-mouth, cold-eyed smile. “Please don’t misconstrue my question as an indictment; I have no objection to your avoidance,” she says. “In many ways, it makes this so much easier.”

Tim’s stomach suddenly sinks. _Of course it does,_ he realizes. _Avoidance. Isolation. Loneliness._ That’s _what Jon says her god feeds on: what she wants from us._

_… But I’m sure as hell not going to give it to her on a silver platter._

“Yeah, for you and me both,” he says, crossing his arms. _“But,_ it also makes it harder for you to work with us. If,” Tim adds, “working with us to stop the Unknowing _is_ really what you want to do.”

Nora’s eyebrows rise. “It is.”

“Well. Good,” Tim says bitingly. “Because that’s what I want, too. And as much as I hate to admit it, we might need all the help we can get.” He pauses. “That is, if you’re serious about that offer.”

Nora gives him a long, silent, searching look. Tim meets her black gaze, waiting impatiently for her answer. 

(Truth be told, he has no idea what he’s hoping will win out here: her professed desire for solitude, or her supposed desire to help them. Either way, he doesn’t know if there’s a way for _him,_ or the Archives as a whole, to win.)

Unexpectedly, Nora’s smile widens, showing teeth. “You will need help.” She brushes past him in a rush of frigid air, settling on the edge of the fountain. “And should you ask for mine, you shall receive it.”

Tim turns and stares at her, waiting for her to continue. But Nora says nothing more: just produces a silver cigarette case and lighter from somewhere on her person and selects a cigarette without acknowledging him further.

Mouth flattening, Tim turns back around to head inside. He’d had enough conversations like this to know that this one wasn’t going anywhere — and besides, it was growing too cold to be out here without a jacket.

“You never did tell me which one you are.”

Tim wearily pivots back to face her. “Come again?”

“Which of Jon’s assistants you are.” Nora’s chosen cigarette is lit now, balanced between two fingers as she takes a steady drag. “Are you Martin, or are you Timothy?”

Tim once again fights the urge to wince — even when Danny had jokingly called him that in some overblown posh accent, even when he himself had said it when giving his statement, he’s never liked the sound of his full name. “The latter,” he says shortly. “Although it’s _Tim.”_

“Tim.” Smoke curls from Nora’s mouth as she speaks, floating up past the fountain and into the grey sky. “You seem to be a man of great loyalty. So, I’ll ask you this: if Jon won’t ask outright for my aid, would you consider asking on his behalf?”

Tim stares at her, temporarily at a loss for words. “Absolutely _not,”_ he says. “You know damn well what Jon’s opinion is about you. I do, too, and I agree with it.” His voice is rising, echoing strangely in the too-still air. “And I’m _not_ about to try and change his mind, or go behind his back, or —”

“And I don’t expect you to, unless the situation is so dire as to demand it,” Nora cuts in. “Jon may be the Archivist, but he is still growing into his power. And in pursuit of the Stranger, he may very well find himself in a corner he can’t talk his way out of.” Her tone is idle, even light, but her eyes are as dark and impenetrable as ever. “As one closer to him than I, all I expect you to do is to look out for his best interests.”

“And I will,” Tim retorts. “Just as long as they’re _his_ and not _yours.”_

_I’ve already failed to look out for two people too many,_ he thinks as he turns on his heel and stalks away from Nora, squaring his shaking shoulders against the deepening chill of the courtyard. _Failed to protect them from what they feared._

 _But I’m_ not _going to fail a third._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Well-intentioned and agreed-upon, but nevertheless harmful, use of compulsion._
> 
> Tim's statement is [MAG 104: Sneak Preview](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_104:_Sneak_Preview), and Jon's statement is [MAG 81: A Guest For Mr. Spider](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_81:_A_Guest_For_Mr._Spider). (And Leanne Denikin's statement is [MAG 24: Strange Music](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_24:_Strange_Music)!)


	3. Insight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding follow-up interviews with Jurgen Leitner and Melanie King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Content warnings are in the end notes.** _

It takes almost a month after that Thursday for Sasha to find Leitner.

If this had been anyone else she was trying to track down at any other time, she’d probably feel the need to defend her slow results to her fellow researchers or archival assistants, insisting to them that how long it had taken her wasn’t due to lack of trying. Granted, it’s not like she _hadn’t_ been genuinely trying to find Leitner, but it _had_ been a while since she’d had to do any information-gathering more intensive than making sense of Gertrude’s laptop, let alone actual hacking. And considering that Leitner was put down as a John Doe by the responding EMTs and police officers alike, Sasha had her work cut out for her once she finally got access to all those records.

Still. She’s long since finished piecing together this labyrinthine paper trail; she could have told Jon about where that trail ended at least a week before she finally told him today. After all, he _was_ the one who asked her, albeit grudgingly, to find Leitner in the first place.

“He’s the only person we know of who was… at least _partially_ privy to Gertrude’s plans,” Jon had told her. “So if he — if he’s somehow still _alive_ after everything —” He’d sighed, his expression decidedly unenthusiastic. “Well. Given the choice between Nora and Leitner, we might as well give Leitner a shot.”

Sasha got it, or enough of it. Leitner might be on their side, technically, but that didn’t mean Jon miraculously liked him now, even after —

(She doesn’t finish that sentence; she never tries to. But her spiteful memory always fills in the blanks anyway, with blood and with begging and with _eyes.)_

_Still._ As much as she had tried to find Leitner, Sasha had tried even harder to do nothing, or next to nothing. To gather records upon records and not actually read any of them. To save a phone call for tomorrow. To put off an actual visit to the hospital.

It used to feel so satisfying to come to some kind of conclusion, to prove that there was a point to all of her research, to _see_ and know that she was right about the knowledge she so relentlessly pursued.

Sasha hates that she can’t trust that satisfaction any more.

Even after painstakingly following Leitner’s trail through the maze of police reports and hospital forms, Sasha’s still at a loss to explain how Leitner went from barely clinging to life at the nearest A&E to the Institute, even after several emergency surgeries, to quietly convalescing in a private hospital room in Chelsea. While she’s well aware that Leitner _was_ wealthy once upon a time — he could hardly have assembled his infamous library otherwise — Sasha is baffled as to how he could still access his bank accounts after two decades of being presumed dead.

But all that matters is that he’s _here,_ in the corner suite upstairs, and she’s finally worked up the nerve to visit him. Even in her most expensive-looking coat and the only pair of heels she owns, Sasha had still half-expected to stick out like a sore thumb, maybe even dismissed at the front desk out of sheer snobbery. But the receptionist seemed to buy that such a sharply-dressed woman with such a steady gaze did indeed have someone here to see, and gladly gave her directions.

The door stands before her now. Before she can hesitate again, Sasha knocks.

The voice from within is ragged and weary, but still familiar. “Come in.”

Taking a deep breath, Sasha opens the door and steps inside. 

In contrast to the spotless, sterile hallways she walked through to get here, this room surprisingly looks less like a hospital room and more like a hotel room. In fact, amid the lilac and cream walls, the wood floors gleaming from the sunlight streaming through the windows, and the vases of flowers on seemingly every side table, it’s the hospital bed and its trappings that seem the most out of place.

Leitner is sitting up in bed, thumbing through a newspaper spread out over his tray table. Despite the bandages on his weathered face and the cast on one arm, to say nothing of his frail appearance overall, he’s still looking remarkably alive for a man who was nearly bludgeoned to death a month ago.

He looks up, and recognition instantly sparks in his eyes. “Oh. Hello.” He folds the newspaper shut and pushes it and the tray table to the side, never taking his gaze off her. “Sasha, correct?” 

“That’s me.” Shutting the door behind her, Sasha approaches the bed. “And you’re… _George Icarus_ now?”

Leitner lets out a tired chuckle that turns into a cough. “An old _nom de guerre,_ courtesy of Gertrude. Mildly insulting, but admittedly not inaccurate.” Hand pressed to his chest, he slumps back against the headboard. “In any case, I thought it would be better to give _that_ name to the police rather than ‘Jurgen Leitner’ — God only knows what sorts of cases my real name must be connected to.”

“The police questioned you?” Sasha circles around to pull one of the chairs underneath the windows up to Leitner’s bedside, and then sits.

“A rather brusque detective was the first person I saw after regaining consciousness.” Leitner grimaces. “Even if she hadn’t been hurling accusations thinly veiled as questions at me, she was… not an especially comforting presence. So, I gave her _a_ name, and then proceeded to feign confusion about everything else she asked.”

Sasha frowns. She has no doubt who this detective is, but she has no idea _why_ Detective Tonner would have any interest in Leitner outside of whatever case she was making against — against _Elias._

(Sasha makes herself finish that sentence. However far-reaching his powers of sight are, it isn’t like Elias is some specter in a mirror that could be summoned by name alone. And she isn’t about to let herself become more afraid of him than she already is.)

Leitner’s voice is a surprisingly welcome intrusion on her thoughts. “I take you’re here to interview me as well?” he asks wryly. “You’ll forgive me for doubting that anyone from the Institute would have taken the time to track me down for any other reason.”

Sasha almost laughs at that. “You’re... not wrong,” she admits. “If Jon hadn’t asked me to find you and if, um — ” Her throat feels suddenly, strangely tight. “I don’t know. Maybe I would have looked anyway.”

Leitner’s forehead furrows.

Sasha swallows and forces herself to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark grey and deeply grave, and they watch her with no small amount of wariness.

“I guess what I’m trying to say,” Sasha finally says, “is that — is that I’m _sorry.”_ The words weighing down her tongue for the past month fall from her mouth like stones. “It’s _my_ fault that you —”

“I do believe it’s _Elias’_ fault that I’m in hospital,” Leitner interrupts dryly. “You didn’t —”

“Exactly. I didn’t do _anything.”_ Her throat is still closing, her voice growing even thinner. “I just — just hid and heard it _all_ and I —”

“And I do appreciate the apology, but there’s really no need. There truly was... nothing you could have done to stop him.” Leitner’s face is greyer than his eyes. “Surely you know that.”

A memory of a choked, silent scream rises in her throat, and for a moment, Sasha forgets how to breathe. “Of _course_ I know,” she manages, her voice bitter. “I just —”

“Of course.” Leitner breaks eye contact, as if ashamed. “Of course you know.”

Jaw tightening, Sasha just nods.

Leitner is silent for a moment. Then: “You... could have read _A Disappearance,_ tried to escape.” He lifts his gaze slowly, his expression somber. “Whatever your reasons for not reading it may have been, I… do believe that I would not be here speaking to you if you _had_ read it.” He almost smiles, but the gesture is strained from all the bandages on his face. “If anything, I should be thanking you.”

Sasha swallows. She can see the logic in what he’s saying, even if she can’t bring herself to accept it. But Leitner hadn’t accepted her apology either, and this impasse is as good a place as any to drop this uncomfortable topic.

Leitner seems to think so as well. “Speaking of which, where is _A Disappearance?_ And _The Seven Lamps?”_ he asks. “Not taken by the police as evidence, I hope.”

“No, we managed to hold onto those, along with all of Gertrude’s files and tapes that we found in Elias’ office,” Sasha says. Now _here_ was something she could actually talk about without falling to pieces in front of a near-stranger. “I got the books accessioned in Artifact Storage; they’ll be secure there.”

“And the files, the tapes?” Leitner presses. “Have you found anything there yet, about the Unknowing or — or anything?”

Sasha shakes her head. “We only just started going through them — Jon wanted to look back at the statements he’d already recorded first, just in case there was anything there that we missed before.” She folds her hands in her lap. “In any case, it’s a _lot_ of ground to cover, and we’re covering it a lot slower than we usually would, mostly because —” She lets out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a snort. “Well... we’ve under new management since… well, _everything,_ and Jon isn’t terribly keen on cooperating with her.”

Leitner frowns. “‘Her’?”

“Nora Lukas.” A thought suddenly occurs to Sasha. “You… wouldn’t happen to know anything about her, would you?” she asks. “Or her family?”

“I do recall Gertrude mentioning the Lukases once or twice, but I really couldn’t tell you much about them... besides the fact that Gertrude was _very_ obviously disdainful of them.” Leitner chuckles. “One would think that she would consider a family with such close ties to the Institute to be a threat, but that did _not_ seem to be the case.” His moment of mirth passes and his former frown deepens. “But… _Nora._ I swear I _have_ heard that name, but... if not from Gertrude, then _where?”_

He falls silent again, clearly lost in thought. Sasha’s almost tempted to ask outright — coax it out of his memory with nothing but a single, simple question — but she bites her tongue and lets him think.

“Ah,” Leitner says after a moment. “I — I _think_ I have it.” He sits up a little straighter, his free arm shaking slightly with the effort of readjusting his fragile body. “Back in… ‘91, I believe the year was — I was at the Bloomsbury Auctions in pursuit of a rather unique pocket edition of a mid-Victorian poem titled ‘The Vampyre’: by no means a famous poem, and by all accounts, not a particularly good one, but...” He lets out another, more rueful laugh. “Artistic merits aside, what _really_ got me interested in the book was its provenance. I’d had one of my assistants look into it before I made my decision to try and add it to my library, and —” He stops, seeing the look on Sasha’s face. “Well, I won’t trouble you with the gory details, but suffice to say, it was at auction for a reason.”

“And you _still_ tried to buy it?” Sasha asks incredulously.

“Tried and failed,” Leitner corrects. “Despite its mildly interesting format, I’d counted on the book’s sordid history being a deterrent to other buyers, so I went low and was subsequently _very_ surprised when I was outbid at twice the amount I’d initially offered.” Unbelievably enough, he still sounds annoyed about it. “I could have easily matched or exceeded the final price, so I arranged a meeting with the buyer and tried to work out a private deal for the book. While she graciously heard me out, she unfortunately refused to sell it and I left that particular auction empty-handed.” He pauses. “Probably better off for it, to be honest, but I’d never _failed_ to acquire a book I was after before, and, well… it did sting a bit.”

“And that buyer,” Sasha says slowly, “was... Nora Lukas?”

“Indeed,” Leitner confirms, “although I didn’t know the significance of her surname at the time. A very courteous and charming woman, to be sure, but… exceedingly unnerving to be around.” He wrinkles his nose. “Particularly since she was smoking throughout our meeting, _despite_ the fact that we were meeting at a rather upscale restaurant. I remember wondering at the fact that one of the waiters or a fellow diner hadn’t already asked her to stop, but —” he snorts “— what little good sense I had told me that _I_ shouldn’t be the one to make that request, either.”

Sasha considers this new information; from what Jon and Tim had said about their encounters with Nora Lukas, that _did_ sound like her. _But what would she want with a book like — like_ that?

Then another thought occurs to her. “When you met her… did she have an assistant or a companion of any kind?” Sasha asks slowly. “There’s an avatar of the Eye helping her run the Institute — a woman named Cassandra, or Cass, for short. Do you know who she might be?”

Leitner’s already shaking his head. “When I had my meeting with her, Ms. Lukas appeared to be alone.” He pauses. “Although… are you certain that this _Cassandra_ belongs to the Eye?”

Sasha shrugs. “That’s what she told Jon.”

“Hmm.” Leitner’s forehead furrows again. “That’s interesting.”

Sasha peers at him. “How so?”

“Theoretically, anyone can be marked by an entity at any time for whatever reason, but _practically_ speaking, there are certain people who are at… greater risk than others.” Leitner’s mouth tightens. “In the case of the Eye, those who catch its attention _tend_ to have some sort of connection to one of its institutes.”

Sasha frowns, taken aback. “Institutes, _plural?”_ she asks. “So there are _more_ places like the Magnus Institute?”

“Indeed,” Leitner says grimly. “They’re not directly affiliated with _your_ Institute; they all operate independently of one another — with the exception of those who have multiple branches in larger countries, I suppose. But they are all _very_ much devoted to the Eye.” He coughs again; when he continues, his voice is a little raspier than before. “I… know Gertrude was in occasional contact with the Pu Songling Research Center in China and the Usher Foundation in the States, but for the most part, all the institutes tend to be very insular. Secretive. Protective of their knowledge.”

_Well,_ Sasha thinks darkly, _the Institute certainly has a fair number of secrets of its own._ “If you’re right and Cass _does_ have a connection to one of these other institutes… why is she at the Magnus Institute?” she asks aloud. _“And_ helping an avatar of the Lonely?”

“That, I couldn’t tell you,” Leitner confesses. “But regardless, Ms. Lukas and Cassandra are an odd enough couple that I think the Archivist is correct to be suspicious of them.”

Silence falls between them, the still only broken by the ticking of the clock on the wall. Instinctively, Sasha checks her own watch; her lunch break is nearly over, and she still has to get back to the Institute, let alone eat.

“I should be heading back,” she says, standing up. “Thank you for — for your time.”

Leitner nods absently. Not knowing what else to say, Sasha returns the gesture, albeit a bit awkwardly, then starts towards the door. 

“Will you be returning?” Leitner asks suddenly. “You’re the only visitor I’ve had since that detective, and, well…” He lets out a laugh, or tries to, before it’s lost in more coughing. “Given the choice between the Institute and the police —”

Sasha hesitates, her hand resting on the door handle. “I — I will,” she says quietly.

_I left him to his fate once before,_ she thinks, opening the door without waiting for a response. _Even with who he is, even after everything he’s done… I can’t just stand by and let something like that happen again._

_To_ anyone.

Flipping the file folder shut, Jane shoves it aside to the growing pile at the side of her desk and takes another bite of her wrap. “I thought,” she says through a mouthful of falafel, “that the whole point of taking a lunch break was so we wouldn’t have to work _through_ lunch.”

“That _is_ generally the point, yeah.” Tim discards another file folder on his own pile. “But with Sasha out visiting Leitner in the hospital, and with Jon and Martin out… at lunch? On a lunch date? On a _date_ date?” He shrugs, then reaches for his own wrap. “Anyway, _someone’s_ got to hold down the fort.”

_“And_ get started on going through Gertrude’s files?” Jane asks wryly.

“I mean, if we’re stuck here…” Tim trails off with a wince, clearly rethinking his words. “Though we don’t _have_ to stay in the Archives for lunch if we don’t want to,” he adds. “I mean, the back courtyard _is_ stifling in its own weird way, but if you want to get some sort of fresh air, I’ll join you.”

Jane swallows, but a lump is still sticking in her throat. “No thanks,” she says, picking at the pita bread of her wrap. “I’ve gone outside enough for one day.”

She _does_ appreciate that Tim’s still offering to keep her company. With Sasha unavailable, to say nothing of Jon and Martin, the prospect of getting lunch by herself had been a daunting one. But when she’d asked Tim, he’d grabbed his coat without hesitation, telling her on their way out the door that he knew a pop-up food stand that sold falafel wraps that were to _die_ for and that he always went there on Fridays, _so —_

But even after ascending from the basement into the crisp March air outside the Institute, she couldn’t seem to escape all those _eyes._ Granted, having Tim striding alongside her and chatting away did a lot to deflect any potential prying questions from the people peering at the two of them on the street, but even _he_ couldn’t shield her from their stares — and there were so _many,_ sliding over every single silver scar on her face like cold fingers. And even when people didn’t _try_ to stare, they still had to be aware enough of her to avoid looking at her.

Jane takes another bite of her falafel wrap, and one of the hot peppers she’d purposefully added sets her tongue alight. It’s almost funny, all the different ways her life has stubbornly continued to be strange: even as more of her life becomes more recognizably _normal._ She has a home and a toothbrush in the bathroom and a favorite mug in the kitchen. She has a proper winter coat and boots, and an Oyster card to use on her new commute. She even has a bank account, since Nora or Cass or _someone_ had apparently looked at the books, realized Elias hadn’t been paying her, and promptly sent her a check with a staggering amount of back pay, plus her wages for that week. She has _friends,_ and a girlfriend who loves her and who she loves _._ And she finally has a life outside the Institute.

Nevertheless, for all her newfound freedoms and all those surprisingly thrilling normalcies, there are still those low, dark days where she thinks everything would be simpler if she was still caged. At least then she’d never have dared to hope of escape from the constant scrutiny.

Jane finishes chewing and swallows; fortunately, the tahini has cooled the heat of the pepper by now. “What do _you_ do?” she asks suddenly. “When people stare.”

“Smile and wave,” Tim says instantly, lifting up his wrap to his mouth. “I mean, it’s not _every_ day you see someone as handsome as —”

“At the scars, I mean,” Jane interrupts.

Tim freezes mid-bite.

Jane bites her lip. “Sorry,” she says quietly. “I — I know it’s a bad question. Especially from me.” _Especially since I’m the reason you have them._

Tim sighs. “No, you — you’re good; it’s fine.” He takes his bite and begins to chew, but his face is considerably more somber than before. “And honestly, it depends. I think it’s easier for me to ignore it now, just because I’ve… gotten used to it.” He swallows, then drops the wrap back into the foil spread out on his desk. “But back when they were still fresh, people used to ask me, _a lot,_ how I got them, and —” Tim grimaces “— _that’s_ what really got to me.”

“Did you ever say anything to them?” Jane furls what remains of her pita bread a little tighter around the loosening filling, then pops it all in her mouth. 

Tim shrugs. “Sometimes. Never what _actually_ happened, though; I just kept making shit up.” He snorts. “The last guy who asked me — and he did it on the Tube, while I was on my way into work, so _that_ was infuriating on _so_ many levels — I told him that I worked in publishing and I’d recently gotten this big promotion. _But,_ one of my coworkers got jealous, so he armed the entire copywriting department with freshly sharpened pencils and then they Ides of Marched me in the conference room.” A familiar wry smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth. “By the time I started wailing about how I was now dying a slow, painful death from lead poisoning, he could _not_ get off the train fast enough.”

Jane raises her eyebrows. “Pencils have graphite, not lead.”

“Not the point. Point _is...”_ Tim pauses, sobering slightly. “Unfortunately, people are going to stare,” he finally says. “And sometimes, some of those people are going to be really rude about it.” He idly rubs at one of the scars higher up on his cheek. “Honestly, there’s no one way to deal with it. You just have to find a way that works for _you.”_

Jane narrows her eyes at him. “... I can’t decide if that’s terrible advice or not,” she remarks.

“Oh, it is _not_ terrible advice,” Tim scoffs, gesturing at her with a flourish and a grin. “See? You can glare at people _just_ like you’re glaring at me now! That’ll stop _anyone_ from asking any rude questions!”

Jane considers it. “... I _guess,”_ she admits grudgingly. 

“‘I _guess’?”_ Tim repeats, as if offended, but he’s laughing as he says it. “I give you not-terrible advice — no, _spectacular_ advice — and _that_ is the thanks I get?”

Jane finds her glower breaking down into a grin. “You heard me.” She balls up the foil that used to hold her wrap, and then throws it in the wastebasket beside her desk. “But… seriously. Thanks.”

Tim nods, his smile a little more rueful. “Yeah. Sure.” Picking up his wrap, he continues eating his lunch.

After a moment, Jane wheels her chair back around to fully face her desk, then she picks up the next file folder and flips it open. As with the previous cases, she glances over the initial filing form at the beginning — the case number, the date of the events in the statement, the date when the statement was given, the statement-giver’s name, notes from whoever investigated and then filed it — then moves on to skimming through the statement itself.

Unlike the previous cases, this one gives her pause.

Jane spins her chair around again. “Tim.”

“Yeah?” Tim’s polished off his own falafel wrap by now, although as he wheels his chair to face her, he aims his balled foil at the wastebasket by the copier and misses by mere centimeters. “Got something?”

“I think so.” Jane holds out the folder to him. “Case 0131910, statement of Chloe Ashburt. See what you think.”

Tim takes it from her and flips through the pages. “Oh Christ, I remember this one coming through Research,” he mutters. “Wasn’t too long after I joined the Institute.” He closes the folder, his expression grim. “Even if I didn’t look into this one myself, it’s kind of hard to forget a story about a murderous mannequin.”

Jane frowns. “You thought there was a connection?” she asks. “To what happened to your brother?”

“I mean... _yeah,”_ Tim says darkly. “More circus bullshit and more _skinning.”_ Exhaling harshly, he stands up and starts walking towards Jon’s office. “I’ll leave it for Jon to take a look at when he gets back. Get another opinion on whether I’m imagining the connection or not —”

Before Tim can finish his sentence, the door to the Archives is shoved open, hitting the wall behind it with a _bang_ before it closes again.

Having barely slipped through the door, Melanie stumbles to a halt. “Shit. Sorry,” she says to a startled Tim, then looks frantically around the Archives. “Oh! Hey, Jane!”

“Melanie?” Surprised, Jane gets up from her desk.

“The one and only.” Melanie gives a lazy salute, or tries to, but her hands fall to her knees as she flops forward. “Listen, um,” she manages in between hard breaths, “is Jon around? Or Sasha?”

“Both out right now.” Tim drops the file folder into the mail tray mounted outside Jon’s office door. “No idea when either of them will be back, but you’re welcome to —”

“Gotcha.” Though her cheeks are flushed with exertion, Melanie’s face is quickly draining of color. “Can I sit?”

Jane grabs the back of her chair and wheels it over as quickly as she can. As soon as it’s within reach, Melanie grabs the chair and collapses in it, her legs crumpling underneath her at odd angles.

Jane peers at her. “Are you all right?”

Melanie makes a face. “No, not really,” she says. “Got shot. Sort of. In India?”

“You _what?”_ Jane asks, alarmed.

“Oh, it’s — it’s mostly fine now,” Melanie says quickly. “I can sort of walk on it now, at least.” She gingerly rolls one of her ankles around. “It’s… actually what I wanted to talk to Jon about. Or Sasha.”

Tim arches an eyebrow. “Do you _really_ want to do that?”

Melanie frowns. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Jane casts a pointed look in Tim’s direction. Tim just raises his hands and shrugs.

Jane sighs. Tim’s not wrong, but right now is very much _not_ the time to discuss it. “How long have you been back from India?” she asks Melanie.

“Not too long,” Melanie says. “Flew home as soon as I got out of the hospital. Spent the last... week, I think, recuperating on the couch while I tried to figure out… well, _everything.”_ She taps her knee, then immediately winces.

Jane notices. “Sasha keeps Ibuprofen in her desk,” she says. “I can get some for you if you want; I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“Thanks, but I’ll manage.” Melanie’s tone is brisk, but her face is still tight with pain. “It’s just…” She huffs. _“Fuck,_ I don’t know why it still hurts this badly.”

“Well, you _did_ say you got shot,” Tim says dryly. “I’d imagine that getting shot hurts.”

Melanie gives him a withering look. _“Yeah,”_ she says, “but it’s not like the doctors found a bullet or —”

“They couldn’t see it.”

Jane’s head turns to the door.

The speaker is a young woman, standing just inside the entrance to the Archives. Between her lavender hair, the piercings studding her ears and nose, and her colorfully mismatched clothes, she stands out against the beiges and browns of the Archives, but she carries herself with surprising self-assurance, as if she knows she’s meant to be here.

With a start, Jane realizes that she’s seen this woman before: on the Friday after Elias’ arrest, when she was waiting in the atrium for Sasha and the others to clear out her cell. Her dress had been businesslike and her hair had been in braids, but this was the same woman who’d waved at her, who’d given her a smile as though they’d known each other forever — 

_— or as though she’d known_ exactly _who I was,_ Jane realizes, and that thought makes her unaccountably uneasy.

Melanie spins her chair around, instantly on edge. “Excuse me?”

“They couldn’t see it,” the woman repeats; her voice is high and clear and oddly upbeat. “They could see the wound they were stitching up: just above the tibia, just avoiding the knee. But they couldn’t see past the broken skin: deeper into the bleeding flesh, the bruised muscle, the battered bone.” Her gaze slides down, down to Melanie’s leg. “But _I_ can.”

Her skin suddenly erupts in prickling, and Jane realizes too late what it is that she finds so unsettling about this woman. Her eyes are a piercing blue, and _bright_ in a way she is unfortunately all too familiar with.

“You can’t see it,” the woman continues, almost sympathetic, “but you can _feel_ it, can’t you?”

Jane wants to say something, _anything_ to drown out this woman’s stream of speech and dim her sight, at least for a moment. But her mouth won’t listen to her mind, and when she looks at Tim, silently pleading with him to do the same, he stares back at her in mute panic.

“The hard metal throbbing against the bone, burrowing into your marrow and splintering apart your nerves with every staggering step.” The woman is still dreamily rambling on, her eyes alight with awe and fascination. “The rust flakes in your bloodstream, pumping corrosion and carnage through your body with every pounding drumbeat of your reckless heart.”

As horrified as Jane is sure she looks, Melanie looks undoubtedly worse. “I —” she starts, but it’s all she can say.

“Soon enough, all within you will be rotten and red.” The brightness in the woman’s eyes blazes high. “And those fragile stitches will _snap_ under the glorious, gory strength of your rage and —”

Unexpectedly, the Archives door creaks open.

The spell broken, Jane finally finds herself able to breathe again. Glancing over at Tim, she finds him similarly shaken out of his stunned state.

Even though her legs still quake underneath her and her face is still ashen, Melanie scrambles to her feet. “Stay the _hell_ away from me!” 

“Melanie?” Jon freezes on the threshold, his hand still on the door handle. “What —?”

“That means you, too, Jon!” Stumbling past the woman, Melanie shoulders her way past Jon, then Martin just behind him, and then staggers out of sight up the stairs.

Jon looks shocked, even hurt, at first. But as he and Martin enter the Archives, Jon sees the woman and Jane sees his wounded gaze turn into a glare. “I _thought_ I told you to stay away from the Archives, Cass.”

_Cass._ A chill shoots down Jane’s spine as she puts the face to the name. _Nora Lukas’ companion. Another avatar of the Eye._

“Oh, you did, Archivist!” Cass says brightly. _“But,_ you’ve forgotten that _I_ said —”

“It’s _Jon,”_ Jon says shortly. “What were you doing down here, then? And _what_ did you do to Melanie?”

Cass cocks her head. “You know her?”

Jon’s stare hardens. “She’s my friend.”

“Are you sure, Archivist?” Cass asks, a gleam in her eyes. _“Really_ sure?”

_“Jon,”_ Jon corrects her again through gritted teeth. “And _yes,_ Melanie’s my friend.”

Cass blinks. “... Well. My mistake, then,” she says. “I just saw her sprinting down to the Archives, her mark red and angry as anything, and assumed that an attack was imminent.” She flashes a vaguely apologetic smile at Jon. “Once the Slaughter gets going, it’s _very_ hard to put down, so I had to fire off a warning shot fairly quickly.”

Jon’s glare falters into a wary frown. “The — the _what?”_

“The Slaughter,” Cass repeats. “You know: the Frenzy? The Killing Chord? _Sparagmos?”_ Seeing that Jon looks no less confused, she shrugs. “Or… not.” 

Jon’s mouth tightens. “... It’s another entity, isn’t it?”

Cass nods. “It feeds on violence: the more senseless, the better,” she says. “It really thrives in war, but some of its servants _can_ occasionally be found off the battlefield.”

Fresh alarm flashes across Jon’s face. “And Melanie’s… _marked_ by it?” he asks. “How did you know that?”

“I told you, Archivist,” Cass chides. “We can both see, but we see through different lenses.” Her smile widens mischievously. “You see because you ask — and _I_ see because I _read.”_

Jon just stares at her, not even bothering to correct her this time. “You read —?”

“Pages and all their words in all their languages, like you,” Cass says. “But more often _people.”_ She sits down in Jane’s desk chair, the one that Melanie just vacated. “I saw — _Melanie,_ you said her name was? I saw her limping along as fast as she could go, jaw clenched against the pain shooting up her leg.” She flicks a strand of hair back behind one ear. “And once I had made _that_ little observation, it didn’t take long for me to see what had marked her.”

“And because of that, you decided she was a threat,” Jon says flatly. “And threatened _her.”_

“I’m not a true mind reader, Archivist,” Cass says tartly. “I can paint a picture from what I see, but it’s no substitute for a photograph.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I had no way of knowing she was a friend of yours. All _I_ was doing was trying to protect you and your people. You know,” she adds, “like Nora and I promised we would do?”

Jon just glares at her.

“Oh, lighten _up,_ Archivist!” Cass says teasingly. “I already apologized. A thank-you in return might be nice.”

“For the last time, it’s _Jon,”_ Jon snaps. “And get _out_ of my Archives.”

Cass’ eyebrows lift. “Jon —”

_“Get out.”_ Even with no compulsion behind it, there’s no mistaking the fury in Jon’s voice.

Cass almost looks surprised by Jon’s anger, but more indignant than anything else. Bounding to her feet, she brushes past Jon and Martin and flounces out the Archives door.

After a minute, Tim finally breaks the silence. “Well,” he says grimly. “I guess we know now how Cass _sees.”_

Martin sighs. “... I suppose,” he admits. “Not sure we’re better off knowing _how,_ though.”

Jon says nothing, his expression stony.

Jane swallows, still feeling that unconscious shiver rippling through her scarred skin.

_“Hi, you’ve reached Georgie’s cell phone. I’m not around to take your call right now, so wait for the tone, leave a message with your name and number, and I’ll get back to you when I can. Thanks!”_

_BEEP._

“Hi, uh, Georgie. This is Jon. You probably knew that; I think you still have my number, so… onto the message, I suppose.

“I’ve already tried Melanie’s number, but, um, every time I’ve called, I’ve gone straight to voicemail as well. I _did_ leave her a message, but — well, I know you two are living together now, so can you make sure she hears this? Please?

“Because I am… God, I’m _so_ sorry. I _told_ Cass to stay away from the Archives, and believe me, I am — I am _beyond_ angry that — she shouldn’t have — I’m _sorry,_ Melanie. If Georgie’s playing this message for you, I’m sorry. I — I _know_ my apologies won’t change what happened or make it better, but… well, you’re owed an apology, at the very least.

“And, um… an explanation.

“I would have told you everything before, had I known, but… well, I didn’t _know._ And some part of me didn’t _want_ to know. But I know more now, about the sorts of things you’ve witnessed, and — and I think you should know, too. After everything you’ve gone through, I think you’re owed that as well. 

“I don’t blame you if you’re still angry with me. But… if you want to talk, if you want answers, I’m here.

“... That’s all. And again: I’m sorry.”

Some weeks later, Georgie finally calls him back.

_“Just so you know,”_ she says as soon as Jon picks up, her voice slightly tinny on the other end of the line, _“I’ve put you on speaker, so —”_

“— so, _don’t talk about me like I’m not here,”_ Melanie finishes, a clear warning in her voice.

“I… wasn’t planning to,” Jon says awkwardly. He drops the tape he’s holding into the recorder without closing the lid on it, then lets himself collapse back in his desk chair. “It’s just good to hear from you. Both of you.”

_“Wish I could say the same.”_ Despite her harsh words, Melanie sounds more tired than angry. _“So. Got your messages. I’ll bite.”_ She inhales. _“What the hell was_ that _all about?”_

“That’s —” Jon rubs at his temples. “Well. There’s a _lot_ I need to explain.”

_“No shit,”_ Melanie says with a snort. _“So start talking.”_

Jon sighs. “I’m… not sure having this conversation over the phone is the best idea,” he admits.

_“Well, I’m_ not _going back to the Institute,”_ Melanie retorts, _“so unless you want to go all secret-agent and arrange a rendezvous —”_

_“Actually, Jon,”_ Georgie says thoughtfully, _“are you free tonight?”_

Jon grabs his pocket planner from the corner of his desk and thumbs open the appropriate page. He has _grocery shopping for Friday_ penciled in under Thursday, and _dinner with Martin at home_ under Friday, but nothing for Wednesday. “It seems so?”

_“Then_ I’m _claiming the home turf advantage this time around,”_ Melanie says bluntly. _“Come over for dinner.”_

Jon blinks. “I — thank you for the invitation, but —”

_“We’ve got more than enough food, if that’s what you’re worried about,”_ Georgie says. _“We’re doing two pans of —”_

_“What’s the problem_ now?” Melanie demands, her voice rising over Georgie’s. _“You_ said _you didn’t want to talk about this on the phone!”_

“And I don’t,” Jon says quickly. “But I’m not sure that _dinner_ —” He grimaces. “The conversation might get a little... _unappetizing_ for —”

Melanie’s exasperated sigh echoes through the receiver. _“Jon, I got_ shot. _By a_ ghost,” she says flatly. _“I don’t know how delicate_ your _sensibilities are, but after that? It’s going to take a_ lot _to make me squeamish.”_

“Wait, _what?”_ Jon’s upright in his chair once again. “God, _Melanie —_ you didn’t tell me you —”

_“Look, we’re_ not _doing this now,”_ Melanie interrupts. _“And if you’re really so keen on hearing all about it, I’ll give you my statement or — or whatever_ after _you tell me everything. Deal?”_

Jon almost presses the issue, but he swallows both curiosity and concern, nodding before realizing there’s no way for Melanie to see him. “... Deal,” he confirms aloud.

_“I mean it, Jon.”_ Even through the cracking cell reception, there’s no mistaking the steel in Melanie’s voice. _“Everything.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Hospitals, intentional and malicious use of Beholding powers, semi-graphic description of a wound._
> 
> George Icarus is the name that Jurgen Leitner was buried under, according to [MAG 117: Testament](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_117:_Testament). Chloe Ashburt's statement is [MAG 83: Drawing a Blank](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_83:_Drawing_A_Blank).
> 
> All of the additional epithets for the Slaughter are my own inventions, except for _[Sparagmos](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sparagmos)_ (because I really love _The Bacchae.)_


	4. Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding shared information, and a risky opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow... this chapter really took me a _month_ to write, huh? (Granted, I _was_ on "vacation" for a week, and then I was ~~and still am~~ wrestling with some medical issues for an additional week ~~and counting~~ , but even so, thank you all for your patience!)
> 
>  **Recommended Listening:** ["Palace" by Dessa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63gvl7st41Y)

When Jon finally finishes his hesitant, halting explanation after what seems like an age, Melanie doesn’t speak for an even longer time: just stares at him in incredulous silence.

Then: “... Are you _kidding_ me?”

Jon sighs. _“Now_ you see why I didn’t want to have this conversation over dinner.”

“Too late for that,” Melanie says dryly. “Besides, the food is the only thing keeping this conversation even _close_ to bearable.” As she’s speaking, she carves off another chunk of the rigatoni casserole on her plate, but doesn’t spear it with her fork. “But… _seriously?”_

Jon raises his eyebrows.

“I mean, it’s not like _I’ve_ come up with a more believable explanation for all the weird shit I’ve seen in the past two years,” Melanie amends. “But _this…”_ She trails off, looking over at Georgie. “What do you think?”

Georgie shrugs. “You’ve been a guest on _What the Ghost_ before; you know I’ll believe anything.”

“Yeah, on air,” Melanie retorts. “What about _off?”_

“Not everything,” Georgie says wryly. She glances at Jon, sobering slightly. “But… I believe this.”

“‘This’ being ‘eldritch gods control the world and eat our fear and sometimes choose people to carry out their evil bidding’?” Melanie snorts. “I mean, that sounds —”

“Oh, I know how it sounds,” Jon says tiredly. “And believe me, I didn’t take it any better than you when I was told.” _In fact, I took it_ much _worse._

“How _did_ you find out?” Melanie asks, scooping up some of her rigatoni with her fork. “I’m guessing the ‘monsters are real’ talk _wasn’t_ part of the Institute’s employee onboarding process.”

“Jane.” Jon picks up his knife and fork and starts cutting away at his as-yet untouched rigatoni; while he isn’t feeling particularly hungry, he hardly wants Georgie and Melanie’s cooking to go to waste. “She used to be an avatar of one of these powers. The Corruption.”

 _“Not_ the same one that controls the Institute?” Melanie asks through a mouthful of rigatoni.

“Um… decidedly not,” Jon says with a short, shaky laugh. “The Institute belongs to the Eye. It’s focused on knowledge and observation and… well, _watching.”_ He takes a small bite of the rigatoni, chewing and swallowing it quickly before hurrying on. “That’s the one I… apparently serve. As does Cass.”

Melanie pauses mid-chew, her expression souring at the mention of Cass. “So… you can do that… _mind-reading_ thing, too?” she asks. “Just _look_ at someone and —”

“No, I — I have to ask,” Jon says slowly. He reaches for his glass and takes a sip of water, but his throat is suddenly tight. “If I ask a question, people are… _compelled_ to answer me. Tell me whatever they know, whatever I _want_ to know.”

Melanie swallows hard. “The statements,” she says. “The ones that the Archives takes; are those —?”

Jon just nods.

Then Melanie frowns. _“My_ statements?”

“... Probably,” Jon admits. “Not that I was aware of it at the time, but —”

“I’m not sure if I was, either. Not really.” Still, Melanie’s expression is dark. “When Cass _looked_ at me, I _felt_ that, but you...” She sighs, her shoulders jerking up in a stiff shrug. “I mean, I _guess_ I felt a little off afterwards. And I had some _really_ awful dreams, but… I don’t know; I guess I chalked all that up to those experiences being fresh in my memory.”

Jon averts his gaze, guilt twisting his stomach.

“Wait.” Melanie leans over the table and back into his field of vision, her eyes narrowed. “Cambridge Military Hospital. Was what I saw — is _that_ related to these —?”

“Yes,” Jon says quickly, grateful for the change in subject. “I mean, I don’t know about whatever spectre attacked Sarah Baldwin, but Sarah herself —”

“Sarah?” Georgie glances at Melanie. “The sound engineer I recommended?”

“That’s the one.” Melanie starts sawing at her rigatoni again.

Georgie’s forehead furrows. “What about her?”

“Well, for starters,” Jon says, “she’s been missing since August 2006.”

Melanie freezes. _“What?”_

“But I met her at a networking event a few years back,” Georgie insists. “I told you as much when you called to follow up on Melanie’s statement.”

“That was… very likely _not_ Sarah,” Jon says slowly. “May have _looked_ like her, certainly, but —”

“The _skin.”_ Melanie’s grip on her knife and fork slackens, a strained expression on her face. “Are you saying that something was _wearing_ her —?”

Melanie is cut off by a loud, insistent meow as the Admiral jumps up onto the table and immediately pads over to sniff at Melanie’s water glass.

“Admiral, _no,”_ Melanie says, but there’s no sternness to her words as she tries to nudge him away. “You _know_ you’re not supposed to be on the table —”

“I’ve got him.” Standing up just enough to lean across the table, Georgie lifts the indignant Admiral off the table, then sits back down and settles him in her lap. “Okay, _what’s_ this about skin?” she asks.

Melanie sighs. “So… when we were filming at CMH, I —” She pauses awkwardly, then barrels on. “I kind of saw her peel off her skin? And then staple it back on.”

Georgie blinks. “... Oh.”

“Yep.” Melanie turns her attention back to her rigatoni.

Georgie’s concerned frown deepens. “You… didn’t mention that before.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t mention it to _anyone._ For a _year,”_ Melanie says matter-of-factly. “And then when I _did_ finally talk about it —” she gestures at Jon with her fork “— my story was deemed ‘too unbelievable’ by a place that _does_ believe in that kind of thing, so it wasn’t like I was going to be believed by anyone else. And _then_ I waded into all the war ghost stuff, and...” Melanie shrugs. “I mean, you know all about _that_ bit.” Her mouth cracks into a dry grin. “Not like I moved in with my soon-to-be girlfriend after _Ghost Hunt UK_ fell apart or anything.”

“No, not like that at _all,”_ Georgie says teasingly, returning her smile. 

Melanie’s smile turns slightly guilty. “I — I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it before; I really am. If you’d worked with her again after that and something —” Her voice falters. “And I guess… my course kind of shifted. And I sort of forgot about what got me started down that road in the first place.” She swallows. “Guess it was just easier to focus on the ghost part than — than whatever Sarah was.”

Uprooting a hand from where it had been buried in the Admiral’s fur, Georgie reaches out and gives Melanie’s hand a slow squeeze, her gaze sympathetic. Neither of them say anything, but Jon notices that Melanie’s shoulders slowly lose their stiffness at Georgie’s touch.

Once Georgie lets go, it takes a moment for Melanie to speak again. _“Does_ Sarah have anything to do with — with _whatever_ evil god is in charge of war ghosts?” she asks Jon. “I mean, I’m assuming there _is_ one.”

“There is.” Jon takes another quick bite of rigatoni while he still has his appetite. “But it’s not the same one that Sarah — or whatever’s wearing her skin — is aligned with. _That_ would be the Stranger: things that are human or — or alive and real, but not _quite._ Clowns, mannequins, taxidermy —”

“Major uncanny valley material. Got it.” Despite her wry tone, Melanie’s grin is entirely gone now. “What’s the war ghost god, then?”

“The Slaughter,” Jon says simply. “It’s fueled by — by just pure _violence._ Unpredictable, unmotivated violence, like…” He looks over at her expectantly. “Well, like what you were following up on. In India.”

Melanie’s jaw tightens. _“Why_ do you want to hear about that so badly, Jon?”

“Um —” Jon hesitates. He knows he _must_ have had a reason — a good, solid reason — but he can’t think of what it might have been for the life of him. “I — I thought we had a deal?” he offers weakly. “Sort of?”

“Maybe, but there isn’t really much I _want_ to talk about.” Melanie abruptly drops her knife and fork onto her plate, and the clatter of silverware nearly startles the Admiral out of Georgie’s lap. “I got shot by a ghost — a whole _mass_ of really angry ghosts, actually, with very real guns — and that’s _all_ you need to know. Because it hurt like hell to live through, and I didn’t do it so you could stroke your chin and call it _fascinating.”_

“I wasn’t —” Jon protests. “That wasn’t my —”

“Don’t kid yourself, Jon,” Melanie says flatly. “Ask _Cass_ for her insight, if you’re really that curious, but _don’t ask me.”_

Jon’s mouth snaps shut. He thinks he remembers his reason now — but he’s also uncomfortably aware that his curiosity wasn’t entirely _his._

“Fair enough,” he says quietly. He gingerly sets his own knife and fork down, folding his hands on the table. “I — I did, actually. Ask Cass, that is.”

Melanie leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “And?”

Jon takes a deep breath, readying himself for any reaction. “When you were shot,” he finally says, “you were marked. By the Slaughter.”

Melanie stares at him, disbelief and dread in her eyes. “But the bullet —”

“It’s still in your leg,” Jon says. “Not physically, but it’s _there.”_ His fingers twist a little more tightly around each other. “I can’t see it, but — but Cass could.”

Once again, Melanie doesn’t speak for a long time; Georgie is quiet as well. Jon fights the urge to look away, to look down at his hands, but he’s also careful to avoid both of their gazes.

Then: “So… what does that mean for me?” Melanie asks, her voice heavy and hard. “Am I going to die, or — or _what?”_

“I don’t think it’ll kill you,” Jon says carefully. “But I think that you might… _change,_ somehow. Maybe become more like — like how I am with the Eye, or —”

“Great,” Melanie says bitterly. “Just _great.”_

Jon sighs. “Melanie, I’m sorry; I really am —”

“Just — just _stop,”_ Melanie snaps. “Stop _apologizing._ Your words can’t do _anything_ about —” Her voice breaks, and the surge of anger in it suddenly ebbs, receding into something close to despair.

 _Now,_ Jon looks away.

Exhaling shakily, Melanie pushes her chair back and stands up.

“Melanie?” Georgie asks, concerned.

“I — I’m just going to take a walk. Try to clear my head.” Melanie tries to give her a reassuring smile, but to Jon, it just looks like she’s close to tears. “Be back in a bit.”

Jon doesn’t say anything: just watches with a lump in his throat as Melanie exits the kitchen. The Admiral launches himself out of Georgie’s lap and barrels after Melanie, but despite the cat’s plaintive meowing, Jon still hears the rustling of a jacket being grabbed and pulled on, then the _click_ of the lock as the front door opens and closes.

Eventually, Georgie breaks the silence. “Help me clean up?” she asks, getting up from the table. Her tone is light, but her gaze is still far away.

“Oh, um — yes. Of course.” Startled, Jon glances down at his plate and his half-eaten rigatoni casserole; what he’d managed to eat was excellent, but he can’t bring himself to finish the rest right now. “Do you mind if I —?”

“Go ahead and raid the cabinet.” Georgie grabs her own plate and Melanie’s and takes them both over to the kitchen counter. “And honestly, take whatever you want; we’ve got _way_ too many of those little containers.”

Jon almost laughs at that, but it sticks in his throat. Swallowing, he gets up with his plate and silently follows Georgie into the kitchen. Setting his plate down on the counter, he crouches down, opens up one of the cabinets, and carefully sticks his arm in to grab an appropriately-sized container and lid. Then Jon stands and sets about moving the leftover rigatoni off his plate and into the container.

Sealing the container tightly, Jon turns around with his empty plate. Georgie is leaning over the open dishwasher, fitting the cleared-off plates into the bottom rack.

Jon clears his throat. “Will Melanie —?”

“Leave her be, Jon.” Georgie’s tone is firm, but far from unkind. “I think she needs some space right now. And some time to process everything you just told her.”

“That’s — that’s true,” Jon admits. His hands clench around the edges of his plate. “I’m just —”

“I know,” Georgie says quietly. “So am I.” Straightening up, she reaches out to take his plate and silverware. “But I think the best thing we can do right now is to be there for her on _her_ terms: not with whatever we _think_ she needs.”

Jon nods. “... Right.”

A hush falls over the kitchen for a moment, broken only by the clinking of plates against each other as Georgie finishes loading the dishwasher. The Admiral pads back into the kitchen, leaping onto Jon’s vacated chair and curling up there. Jon just stands awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, then he sees the two pans of half-eaten rigatoni casserole resting on the stovetop and retreats back to the cabinet for more containers.

“How are _you_ doing?” he asks once he’s laid out the containers and their lids on the counter. “I — I didn’t _just_ tell Melanie that monsters were real; _you_ heard it all, too.”

Georgie sighs. “To be honest?” She closes the dishwasher and fiddles with the buttons to get it started. “It… wasn’t that much of a shock.”

Jon pauses, looking over at Georgie in surprise. “Really?” 

Georgie leans back against the now-active dishwasher, fingers drumming on the counter on either side. Her forehead is once again furrowed in troubled thought. “Those gods, or powers, or, however you call them,” she says slowly. “Is there one whose domain is death?”

“Um, I — I think so.” Jon frowns. “Why?”

Georgie looks him dead in the eye. She doesn’t say a word, but Jon doesn’t need to hear her voice to know that she has a story to tell: only the tell-tale sound of crackling static.

“Oh,” is all he says. _“Oh.”_

Georgie just nods. “... Yeah.” Something in her gaze shifts. “Do you… _want_ me to tell you?”

Jon considers it, and he hears the static surge as he does. But then he swallows hard, wincing at the whining _pop_ of his eardrums as he wrestles himself away from the knowledge pulling him in. 

“... No,” he manages, not without effort. “I — I shouldn’t.”

Georgie tilts her head, questioning.

“It’s not that I _don’t_ want to hear about it,” Jon says quickly. “I just — I don’t think _I_ should be the first person you tell it to.” He inhales, gathering his thoughts. “But it might help Melanie? If you wanted to tell her. And I _know_ you said that we shouldn’t assume we know best, or anything like that,” he adds, “but… it couldn’t hurt for her to know she’s not alone in all this.”

Georgie nods again, more thoughtful. Pushing herself away from the counter, she picks up the spatula between the pans of rigatoni casserole and hands it to Jon.

Suddenly grateful to have something to do, Jon starts carefully transferring sections of the casserole from one of the pans into the food containers.

“How about you, Jon?” Georgie grabs another spatula from the jar of kitchen utensils by the stovetop. “I mean, you’ve been marked by one of these entities, too.”

“Um —” Jon finally gets a laugh out, but it’s a nervous, strangled sound. “Could be better.”

Georgie raises her eyebrows. “That’s... not encouraging.”

“I know,” Jon says wearily. “Unfortunately, it’s the truth.” He snaps a lid on the container he just finished filling, then sets it aside. “Remember how I mentioned the Stranger before?”

“Mm-hmm.” Georgie reaches over and grabs one of the empty containers, then gets to work on storing the other pan of rigatoni.

“Well,” Jon says slowly, “the people or — or beings belonging to it are trying to perform a ritual. The Unknowing.” He scrapes out the last scraps of the rigatoni into another container, then closes that one as well. “If it succeeds, it’ll… _remake_ the world in the Stranger’s image. And I —” He exhales. “Well, I’m trying to stop it.”

Georgie pauses mid-scoop, glancing up at him. “Jonathan Sims,” she asks, the ghost of a smile on her face, “are you trying to save the world?”

This time, his laugh feels a bit more natural. “I — I guess I am,” Jon admits. “I mean, _everyone_ in the Archives is, but… yes. I suppose so.” Dropping his spatula into the empty pan, he takes both of the sealed containers over to the fridge and slides them inside. “It’s all we’ve been researching for the past couple of months, but for every scrap of information we dig up, it seems harder and harder to see how it all fits together.” He snorts, letting the fridge door fall shut. “Not to mention we’re covertly investigating our new boss and her assistant —”

“And _why_ is that?” Georgie asks dryly, turning around with her sealed container of rigatoni.

“Because I don’t trust either of them.” Jon takes the last of the rigatoni from Georgie and returns to the fridge. “Cass… well, you know what she did to Melanie.” He puts the rigatoni in with the rest of the leftovers, then shuts the fridge door again. “And Nora’s family is close to our old boss, Elias, who is —” Jon grimaces “— currently imprisoned for murdering my predecessor as Archivist.”

 _That_ actually seems to take Georgie aback. “Well. Shit.”

Jon exhales. “... Yeah.”

Georgie’s quiet for a moment as she takes the empty pans over to the sink. Jon watches her fill both pans up with soapy water, the sound of rushing water washing away what static still lingered in his hearing.

“This might sound a bit obvious, but… is quitting an option?” Georgie tentatively asks, shutting off the faucet. “I know you’re on a mission to save the world and I know the job market isn’t great, but even without the fear god factor, the Institute sounds like an _incredibly_ dysfunctional workplace.”

“I can’t quit,” Jon says heavily.

Georgie turns around, dismayed. “Jon, this isn’t —”

“And it’s not that I don’t _want_ to,” Jon adds quickly, even though he isn’t quite sure if that’s even true. “It’s that I _can’t._ None of us can. We’re all bound to the Institute — _and_ to Elias, somehow.”

“Even though he’s in jail?” Georgie asks.

“It’s _why_ he’s in jail,” Jon says simply. “If he dies… so do we.”

Georgie stares at him, stunned.

“I know.” Jon lets out a small, bitter laugh. “I — I _know_ I screwed up. I’m _really_ in over my head here, Georgie, and I — I honestly don’t know what to _do.”_ His voice breaks on that last word, and his eyes burn. “And every time I _do_ feel like I know something, I don’t know if that’s _me_ or if it’s — if it’s what the Eye _wants_ me to become —”

Jon doesn’t know when Georgie left the sink and came to him, but when her arm wraps around his back and her hand presses between his shaking shoulders, he all but collapses into her. Propping his chin on her shoulder, Jon closes his eyes, feeling a few frustrated tears run down his face. Georgie’s other arm curls around him then, and he feels his spine push against it with his every labored breath, letting the comforting weight of her touch calm him.

Lately, he’s felt more and more like sand, relentlessly shifted and sculpted by a strange tide. But Georgie has always been bedrock: solid, steady, certain. Even after all the time they’d spent apart, not even time could erode that strength at the core of her.

Jon hadn’t wanted to fall back on her like this, hadn’t wanted to burden her again with all his doubts and bad decisions. But she’d caught him all the same.

Georgie finally speaks. “Just… just _please_ tell me that _I’m_ not the first person you’re telling about this, either,” she says quietly. “Because as bad as this is, that’s about the only thing I can think of that would make this situation even worse.”

Jon straightens up, frowning. “... What do you mean?”

Georgie exhales. “You said before it’s not just _you_ trying to save the world. You’ve got people helping you with that.” She takes a half-step back to look up at him, one hand still pressed against his back. “And if you’re worried about turning into something inhuman, well… you should have people helping you with that, too. Anchors.”

“All my anchors are in this just as deep as I am,” Jon says wryly, sadly. For a moment, he thinks of Jane, screaming and thrashing on the floor of the tunnels as the Hive tried to take her back. “Some of them have been even deeper, and they’ve barely made it out.”

“All the more reason to talk to them, then,” Georgie says matter-of-factly.

Jon sighs. “Georgie —”

 _“Jon.”_ Georgie meets his gaze. “You came here tonight because you knew what Melanie was going through, and you didn’t want her to do it alone.” Her expression is serious, but her words are gentle. “Don’t do this alone, either.”

Jon inhales shakily, blinking back a few more tears. “Okay,” he manages. “I — I’ll try.”

Georgie smiles. Then suddenly, her smile turns into a frown.

“What?” Jon asks, then stops, a strange foreboding coming over him. At the edge of his hearing, static crackles once again.

“Do you hear that?” Stepping away from him fully now, Georgie goes to the kitchen window and looks out. “Weirdly late in the day for an ice cream van to be driving around, isn’t it?”

 _Now_ Jon can catch what she’s hearing: an upbeat, but uncanny melody, faint now, but growing faster and faster with each new hiss of static in his hearing.

All of the breath leaves Jon’s lungs. “That’s not —”

“Jon?” Georgie looks back at him, alarmed.

“Calliope —” Jon breathes. “Outside, but — but _how —?” I thought it was in —_

Then the full weight of his words sinks in, punching right through his skin.

 _The Circus. Outside._ Jon sprints out of the kitchen and towards the front door, heart pounding in time with the jangling beat of the calliope. _Melanie. Outside. The_ Circus — 

“Jon?” Georgie runs after him. “Jon!”

“Melanie —” Jon gasps, grabbing for the doorknob. “She’s —”

The front door opens on him.

Melanie stands on the threshold, clearly startled. “Jon? What —?”

“Are you okay?” Jon demands desperately. “The music, outside —”

“Yeah, I heard it on my way back,” Melanie says, stepping inside and around Jon. “Good to know it’s not just me imagining things.” She looks at him, her confusion turning to concern. “Christ, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost — or _something.”_

Jon exhales, looking back and forth between Georgie and Melanie. The static within his ears — and the strains of calliope music outside — have both faded away, but his fear remains.

“It — it _was_ something,” he manages. “Something very, _very_ bad.” He grabs his coat. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”

“Go _where?”_ Melanie asks incredulously. 

“Institute.” Jon skirts around Melanie and steps out the front door. “I need to check on something.”

“Jon, come _on,”_ Georgie protests. “It’s nearly eight —”

“I’m really sorry, Georgie,” Jon says, hastily yanking on his coat, “and — and thank you _so_ much for dinner, but — but this _can’t_ wait.” He swallows hard. “The Stranger’s done waiting.”

“How the hell does someone smuggle a _calliope_ out of Artifact Storage without anyone noticing?” Tim asks incredulously.

“I really don’t know, Tim,” Jon says with a sigh. “Much like the Archives, Artifact Storage has no security cameras, but _elsewhere…”_ He trails off. “Honestly, if this wasn’t so worrying, I think I might be a little impressed.”

Martin hums in agreement. “Proper locked-room mystery.”

“Well, good for the Circus for stealing their creepy calliope back and putting an Agatha Christie plot to shame,” Tim says sarcastically. “Where does that leave us?”

“At least Sonja’s focused on _that_ now,” Sasha says wearily. “She was _still_ trying to figure out who destroyed the table; maybe she’ll forget to return to investigating that once this calliope business blows over.”

Tim just shrugs.

Jane finishes scribbling an addendum on one of the notecards pinned to the cork board. “Do we think it was Breekon and Hope?” she asks, craning her head around to address the others. “They stole the calliope from Leanne Denikin in the first place. And they were probably the ones to take the calliope to the Institute, too.”

“That seems likely,” Martin says. “I mean, they also delivered the _table_ to the Institute; maybe they hoped someone would stumble across the calliope and —” He stops, glancing at Sasha. “Well. That... something bad would happen.”

Sasha swallows. _Or something worse._

“I agree,” Jon says. “Trojan Horses — or tables, or calliopes — _do_ seem to be the Stranger’s _modus operandi.”_

“You can just say M.O., you know,” Tim says dryly. “You know: like someone who _didn’t_ go to Oxford?”

Jon shoots Tim a fondly irritated look that Sasha, barely repressing her smile, instantly recognizes from many lively debates during their Research days. _“That’s_ what you have an issue with? _Not_ the ‘Trojan Horse’ bit?”

“I’m just saying, people are more likely to know _some_ general things about Greek mythology than know Latin,” Tim replies with a grin. “Although in your defense, the main source for the Trojan Horse story is the _Aeneid._ Which _is_ in Latin!”

 _“In any case,”_ Jon says, pointedly ignoring Tim and turning to Jane, “I think you’re correct in assuming that point of connection.”

Jane nods. Picking up one of Martin’s balls of yarn from the basket by the cork board, she pulls out a strand, cuts it, and then carefully pins it to the cork board, connecting two notecards reading _calliope_ and _Breekon & Hope. _

Jon exhales, clapping his hands together. “Right. I think that’s all the updates we have for today.” He pauses, glancing meaningfully down at the floor. “Unless —?”

Sasha shakes her head. The five of them haven’t been regularly convening in the tunnels since everything that happened with Melanie and Cass — partly because they’d since figured out that Cass’ power didn’t seem to be as wide-ranging as Elias’, partly because no one had managed to find out much of anything about Cass or Nora — but Jon nevertheless has kept using their old signal, just in case.

Tim shrugs again. “I’ve got nothing.”

“Same here,” Martin says.

“And here,” Jane adds.

Jon nods. “Right.” He pauses, then takes his glasses off and polishes them on the hem of his shirt. “While we’re all here…” He sighs. “What I’m about to say might sound… counterintuitive, _but,_ just — just hear me out.” He slides his glasses back on. “I think... it might be time for us to start including Nora and Cass in our investigation into the Unknowing.”

Sasha blinks; she doesn’t know what she’d expected Jon to say, but it certainly wasn’t _that._ And glancing around, she can see that she’s far from alone in her surprise — or in her wariness.

Jane’s eyes narrow. _“Why?”_

“Because,” Jon says slowly, “if they feel like they’re in the loop, they might not feel the need to — to just _barge_ into the Archives whenever they please and —” His mouth tightens. “Well. The last thing I want is a repeat of what happened to Melanie. And even though this means we’ll be closer to Nora and Cass than is comfortable, at _least_ we have a chance of keeping an eye on them this way.”

 _“And,”_ Tim says, raising a finger to interject, “if Nora assumes that we’ve finally yielded and asked for her help — like she wants — she _might_ let her guard down. And that would also be helpful for finding out more about her, _and_ Cass. Because _that_ line of investigation,” he adds, “hasn’t really been going anywhere lately.”

Sasha chews on her lip. While what Jon and Tim are saying undeniably makes sense, the prospect of dealing in that level of deception against those sorts of opponents is still making her more than a little uncomfortable.

Jane looks equally skeptical. “‘If’? ‘Might’?”

Jon sighs. “Believe me, I _know_ it’s risky.”

“But if it’s a risk we want to take,” Martin says thoughtfully, “we _do_ have the opportunity to take it on _our_ terms. _Not_ theirs.”

Jon nods. “Exactly my thoughts.”

Sasha finally decides to speak up. “If that’s what we’re going for, I still think we should be cautious about giving them free rein of the Archives,” she says. “Between our own research and… certain architectural features, there’s _way_ too much down here to keep totally under wraps.”

“And considering that Cass showed an unusual amount of interest in coming down to the Archives when we first met, I agree with that,” Jon says. He pauses again, his expression somewhere between doubt and daring. “And if I were to meet with them outside the Archives —”

“But wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of doing this on our own terms?” Martin protests. “That would just take you out of an environment that _we_ have control over!”

 _“And,_ you’d be alone. With _them.”_ Jane crosses her arms. “Ever since Melanie, we haven’t been going _anywhere_ outside the Archives by ourselves. That _can’t_ change now.”

Jon looks at Tim, clearly hoping for backup.

Tim shakes his head. “What they said.”

“But I’m the _Archivist,”_ Jon says, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. “That should give me _some_ measure of defense against them: a defense that none of you have. So I’m not about to put any of you at even _more_ risk —”

“That’s not _quite_ true,” Sasha interrupts. “You might be the only one with the title, but we’ve _all_ been marked by the Eye.” She takes a deep breath. “Especially me.”

Jane shoots her a worried, warning glance.

Sasha pushes back her chair and stands up. “If we’re going to do this, and if you’re planning on meeting with Nora and Cass outside of the Archives, I should go with you,” she says matter-of-factly. “Strength in numbers, _and_ in abilities.”

To her surprise, Jon looks like he’s considering it. “... That — that’s reasonable, I think,” he says after a moment. He glances at the others. “What about the rest of you?”

Martin’s anxious expression is slowly creeping towards relief. But Tim still looks deeply perturbed, to say nothing of Jane.

Sasha knows what she’s concerned about; she can’t say she isn’t thinking about it herself. “We’ll be fine, Jane,” she says softly. “This isn’t like — like the last time.” _The last time I went into that upstairs office._

Jane tilts her head, conceding the point, but now her gaze expectantly turns to Jon.

“We’ll keep our guard up,” Jon promises her. With that said, he turns and grabs the stack of files in the wire tray by the cork board.

“I take it you’re going up now?” Tim asks.

Jon shrugs. “Might as well.”

“We’ll stick around, then,” Martin declares, wheeling his chair back to his desk. “To make sure you two make it back down to the Archives.”

“Well,” Jon says, “I don’t think _that_ will be necessary, but —”

Martin sighs. “Jon. Humor me.”

The corners of Jon’s mouth twitch into a smile. “All right.” He glances over at Sasha. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Sasha says.

Jon nods, then tucks the files under his arm and starts walking towards the door to the Archives. After a beat, Sasha follows him out.

“Have fun storming the castle!” Tim dryly calls after them.

Sasha almost smiles at that. Then the Archives door closes behind her and Jon, and the weight of what she’s just impulsively agreed to do comes crashing down on her.

Sasha exhales sharply. _You can do this,_ she tries to tell herself as they start climbing the basement stairs. _You_ have _to do this. If not for yourself, then… so nothing happens to Jon._

“I — I do appreciate you coming with me,” Jon says, clearly sensing her sudden trepidation. “But it’s really not your responsibility.” 

“That doesn’t mean it should be solely _your_ responsibility, either,” Sasha replies.

Jon frowns. “... That’s the second time in two days I’ve been given advice along those lines,” he remarks.

“Well, maybe you should start taking it,” Sasha says wryly.

Jon lets out a tired chuckle. “I suppose I should.”

By now, they’ve reached the top of the basement stairs. This late in the day, the atrium is mostly empty of traffic, but as they head for the reception desk, Sasha sees a few people descending the main stairs and heading out for the night.

Rosie’s busily typing away at her computer, but she looks up as Jon and Sasha approach. “Jon, Sasha!” she exclaims with a warm smile. “What can I help you with?”

“Hello, Rosie,” Jon replies. “Do you know if Nora’s available?”

“I can call up and check,” Rosie offers, reaching for the phone. “She’s not very good about answering the phone, but it can’t hurt to try.” Punching in the extension, she holds the receiver to her ear and waits. 

Sasha waits as well. Fortunately, or unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for someone to pick up.

“Nora?” Rosie asks brightly. “Hi, this is Rosie.” A pause. “Oh, I’m well, thank you. Listen, Jon’s here and he’s wondering if you’re available?” Another pause. “Oh, wonderful. Shall I —?” Rosie stops abruptly, smile frozen on her face. “Of course,” she continues, as if she’d never been interrupted. “Bye now.” Hanging up, she addresses Jon. “You’re in luck. Head right up.”

“Thanks, Rosie.” Jon starts to turn away.

“Oh, and Jon?” Rosie says, hastily standing up. “While I have you here —”

Jon pauses mid-turn.

Rosie leans over the desk. “Just so you know,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “that detective came back today.”

Sasha frowns. _Detective Tonner?_

Jon looks similarly taken aback. “Really?” he asks. “She didn’t come down to the Archives.”

“She wasn’t asking after you this time,” Rosie says. “I don’t know why, but she wanted to see Nora.”

Jon’s eyebrows rise. “And did she?”

“She did not,” Rosie replies. “Nora must have been out — or ignoring the phone.” She shrugs. “Either way, Detective Tonner was hardly pleased.”

“Hmm.” Jon’s frown deepens. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Of course, Jon.” Rosie sits back down and returns to her work.

Still frowning, Jon heads for the main stairs.

Sasha continues to keep pace with him. “Why would Detective Tonner want to see Nora?” she asks.

“I’m not sure,” Jon confesses. He pauses, a new thought clearly occurring to him. “And why _now?_ It’s been over two months since she arrested Elias; surely the case against him has already been closed.”

 _I certainly hope so._ “And we know she’s also been looking into Leitner — or _was,_ before he transferred hospitals.” Sasha sighs. “I don’t know, Jon; something about this doesn’t seem —”

“— sanctioned,” Jon finishes grimly. “I know she’s Sectioned, but… even so, this seems a little too cloak-and-dagger for even _them.”_ He glances over at her as they clear the landing and continue up the last stretch of stairs. “Have you been back to see him? Leitner, I mean.”

Sasha swallows. “Not yet,” she says. “I’m planning to go back on Monday.”

“Well, when you do, ask him if Daisy’s come around again,” Jon says. “At this rate, I think she might have to be someone else we need to keep tabs on.”

Sasha nods. “Agreed.”

They’re in the upstairs hallway now. Turning the corner, Sasha finds her step faltering as she stares down that old, narrow corridor ending in a chestnut door.

 _This isn’t the same,_ she tells herself, swallowing. She follows Jon, but with every step she takes towards the door, the urge to run in the opposite direction grows stronger and stronger. _This_ won’t _be the same._

Still, Sasha gains some small relief from the fact that the portraits of past Institute heads that once lined the hallway have been removed. She would have expected to see dusty squares where they had once hung, but it appears as though a fresh coat of paint has been smoothed over the wall, completely erasing any trace of what was once there.

Pausing in front of the office door, Jon takes a deep breath, then raises his hand to knock.

Before he can, the door is opened by a tall, elegant woman dressed all in white. Sasha has a strong suspicion as to her identity, purely from the pallor of her skin and the darkness of her hair and eyes, but the chill creeping slowly over her skin the longer she stares at the woman only confirms it.

Nora Lukas smiles, almost warm. “Jon.” She stands aside, holding the door open. “Do come in.”

Mouth tightening slightly, Jon steps in. Mustering what little bravery remains with her, Sasha follows him inside.

The office that once belonged to Elias looks much the same from when Sasha was last here: same tall windows, same bookcases with their array of books and curios, same mahogany desk. Still, she instantly sees what changes _have_ been made: the new carpet in front of the desk, the bookshelf that’s been cleared off and transformed into a bar. Another woman, much shorter and far more colorfully dressed than Nora _(Cass,_ Sasha guesses), is currently hovering there, pouring the contents of a crystal decanter into matching glasses.

Most notably, the large painting of Jonah Magnus and the Institute’s patrons, like the portraits that once watched the hallway, has also been removed. What has replaced it is a seascape, with grey-green, glassy waves rolling under a hazy, timeless sky and washing a shattered fragment of a ship’s mast onto the sand. As Sasha peers at the painting, she can almost make out a solitary figure standing further down the shore, staring out at a mastless, sinking ship, but the figure is all but lost in the crashing surf.

Nora notices where her gaze has gone. “You like it?” she asks, closing the door.

Sasha does her best not to flinch at the sound of the door closing. “More than what was there before,” she says.

“I agree.” Nora glides around her, her heels silently sinking into the carpet. “I don’t believe we’ve met yet,” she remarks. “Are you Sasha James or Jane Prentiss?”

Cass laughs. “Well, she’s _not_ the Hive,” she says flippantly, without so much as a glance over her shoulder. “Don’t you see her skin?”

Sasha recoils.

“Sasha, then,” Nora says smoothly: as if Sasha had actually responded, as if Cass had never made that casually cruel remark. She holds out her hand. “I’m Nora Lukas.”

Tamping down her discomfort, Sasha takes it. Nora’s skin is as icy and unyielding as marble, and the muscles in her arm seize up for a moment in shock, but she manages to give Nora’s hand a perfunctory shake. “Nice to finally meet you,” she manages.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine.” That half-warm smile still on her face, Nora looks between her and Jon. “I know _you_ don’t smoke, Jon, but can I get you a cigarette, Sasha?” she asks. “Or perhaps a drink for either of you? It _is_ the end of the workday, after all.”

Finally turning to face them, Cass holds up the decanter and shakes it invitingly.

“No thanks,” Jon says flatly.

Sasha gives Nora a polite smile. “I’m fine. But thank you.”

Nora inclines her head. “Of course.”

Returning the decanter to the makeshift bar on the bookcase, Cass picks up the two glasses. “One for me —” she takes a quick gulp from one glass, then flits to Nora’s side and hands her the other “— and one for you.”

“Ah, thank you.” Nora takes a long, slow sip, savoring it. She smiles down at Cass, and the gesture appears far more genuine than it had been before. “The Glenlivet. You know me so well, Cassandra.”

Cass grins. “Naturally.” Her gaze slides to Sasha, and her eyes are unnervingly bright as she stares at her in unabashed interest.

Sasha forces herself to meet that searching gaze as steadily as she can, but that familiar, unnerving prickling sensation still skitters down her spine.

“Come, sit down.” Drink in hand, Nora walks to her desk, gesturing at the chair before it. “Tell me, what brings you up from the Archives?”

Jon doesn’t sit. “We… thought you might appreciate an update,” he says, a bit stiffly. “On our investigations into the Stranger.”

Nora pauses, a gleam in her black eyes. “My,” she remarks. “This _is_ unprecedented… but not unappreciated.” She settles herself into the chair behind the desk. “Still: why the change of heart, Jon?”

Jon opens his mouth, then closes it, obviously floundering.

Sasha realizes it’s time for her to try and jump in. _Quick, Sasha: what would Tim say, if he were trying to convince Nora?_ “We’ve had a _lot_ of information to sift through, and we’ve gotten a few potential leads out of it, but… truth be told, we don’t yet know what to do with them.” She shrugs and offers Nora a self-effacing smile. “So, we thought it would be best to get a fresh perspective.”

“New eyes,” Cass chimes in. She drifts to the windows, settling herself on the windowsill, but she never takes her gaze off Sasha.

Sasha feels her smile grow a little more forced. “Exactly.”

After a moment, Nora nods, clearly pleased. “All right, then,” she says, taking another sip of her whisky. “What have you found out?”

Sasha looks meaningfully at Jon.

Jon suddenly remembers he’s the one holding all of their evidence. “Right.” Placing the stack of files on the desk, he spreads them out and then clears his throat. “Unfortunately, we still haven’t found out much about the Unknowing itself. _But,_ Case 0141010 — the most recent of Gertrude’s recorded statements that we’ve found thus far — suggests that preparations for the ritual have been underway since at least September 2014.” He swallows. “And that those preparations involve quite a bit of skinning.”

Nora arches an eyebrow. “‘Skinning’?”

Jon sighs. “It’s difficult to say _exactly_ what Sebastian Skinner bore witness to, but… it appears as though the Stranger’s beings were assembling more — more of the same. Using — well —” He stops; he’s looking more than a little queasy at this point. “In any case, that seems to be what they were making,” he quickly concludes. “Gertrude called them ‘dancers’ in her final comments, but we’re still not quite sure why.”

“Hmm.” Nora idly runs a finger around the edge of her glass. “And your other leads?” she asks Sasha.

“They’re more… areas of interest to explore further than actual _leads,_ but we do have some.” Sasha scans the files Jon laid out on the desk, then pushes one slightly towards Nora. “First off, a pair of Cockney delivery men — we’ve been calling them Breekon and Hope after the Nottingham courier service they apparently work for.”

“We say ‘apparently’ because even though Breekon and Hope, _the company,_ went into liquidation in 2009, Breekon and Hope, _the delivery men,_ still seem to be active following that,” Jon clarifies, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk. “Alexander Scaplehorn, the statement giver for Case 0132306, saw them both at the Trophy Room, and a Breekon and Hope delivery van was placed at the scene of the murder of Lana Billings, as described in Case 0131910.”

“Our second lead is the Trophy Room itself,” Sasha continues, falling in step with Jon’s rhythm of revelation, so familiar from their days in Research long ago. She grabs the relevant file and lays it on top of the previous one she offered Nora. “It’s a taxidermy shop near Woodside Park in Barnet, and according to Mr. Scaplehorn’s statement, its current owner is Daniel Rawlings.” She grabs a third file and adds it to the pile. “Who, according to our previous research into Case 0122204, disappeared in Edinburgh in December 2006.”

“Mr. Rawlings was one of six people to go missing near Old Fishmarket Close in Edinburgh between November 2005 and March 2010,” Jon explains. “Those people were kidnapped and —” a muscle ticks in his throat “— very likely skinned by a being of the Stranger that, per Nathan Watts’ description of it in his statement, we’ve dubbed ‘the Angler Fish.’” He taps Sasha’s pile of case files. “That being was also seen at the Trophy Room by Mr. Scaplehorn.”

“And Mr. Rawlings isn’t the only victim of the Angler Fish to show up in other statements,” Sasha adds smoothly; she’s slipped fully into that old rhythm now, and she can see all the well-worn steps before her and Jon’s back-and-forth beat brings her to them. “According to Case 0161704, Sarah Baldwin, who disappeared in August 2006, went on a ghost-hunting expedition to the old Cambridge Military Hospital in Aldershot in January 2015. And Megan Shaw,” she continues, “who disappeared in June 2008, _could_ be the ‘Megan’ who Mr. Skinner encountered in Gwydir Forest in September 2014, but we’re not yet certain of that.”

“Which brings us to our third and final lead,” Jon concludes, his eyes bright with something like triumph. “Mr. Skinner noted that ‘Megan’ was accompanied by a woman named Jude Perry: a member of the Cult of the Lightless Flame.” Planting his hands fully on the desk, he leans in. “She doesn’t _seem_ to be connected to the Stranger beyond Mr. Skinner’s statement, but Gertrude mentioned that she lives in Havering, so if she’s still living there and if we can find an address —”

“Out of the question.”

Sasha blinks, rudely jolted out of rhythm.

Jon looks almost offended. “I’m sorry?”

“By all means, continue looking into your other leads; they very likely lead _somewhere.”_ Nora downs the rest of her whisky. “But trying to contact Jude Perry would be a grave mistake.”

Jon bristles. _“Why?”_

Nora gives him a decidedly unimpressed look. “How much _do_ you know about the Cult of the Lightless Flame, Jon?”

Jon shrugs stiffly. “Not — not much beyond what the name would suggest —” He stops, seeming to realize what Nora’s getting at. “The Lightless Flame… it isn’t _just_ fire, is it?” he asks, slowly straightening up. “It’s another entity.”

“The Desolation.” Cass’ voice drifts dreamily over from where she’s perched on the windowsill. “Fire without light or warmth or the promise of comfort on a cold night. Only the agonizing heat of boiling, burning flesh and the blackened earth scoured of life in the inferno’s wake.”

Sasha’s stomach twists at Cass’ rapturous tone.

“Still,” Cass adds, a bit more direct now, “as awful as the Desolation is, the Cult of the Lightless Flame doesn’t inspire much awe these days: if it ever did in its heyday.” She meanders away from the windows and towards the desk. “I mean, their leaders are dead, their messiah is deader still, and the Desolation’s devoted have long since scattered.” She lets out a blithe little laugh. “Ashes in the wind.”

“An accurate assessment,” Nora agrees. _“However,_ I would wager that all that loss she’s suffered — suffering the likes of which she’s only ever inflicted on others — has made Jude Perry more dangerous now than she ever was with the Lightless Flame.” She looks pointedly at Jon. “Which is why it would be exceedingly unwise to try to find her.”

“But — but she might know something about the Unknowing!” Jon protests. “Wouldn’t information like that be worth the —”

“This is the last time I’ll give you this advice, Jon, so I suggest that you take it.” Nora stands and draws herself up to her full height, her black gaze boring into them. “Do _not,_ under _any_ circumstances, try to find Jude Perry.”

“We’re going to try to find Jude Perry, right?” Tim leans back against the bar.

“I certainly am.” Jon sighs, rubbing at his temples. “I — I _know_ that Sasha and the others have their reservations, and justifiably so, but —”

“— just because we’re sharing information with Nora now doesn’t mean we have to trust everything she tells us,” Tim finishes. _Or_ anything _she tells us,_ _for that matter._

“Exactly,” Jon says darkly. “And I _don’t_ trust how quick she was to shut that avenue of investigation down.” He rubs at his arms; despite the warmth of the bustling pub, Jon hasn’t taken his jacket off since their arrival. “If Nora is _that_ keen on us _not_ talking to Jude Perry —” 

“— all the more reason for us to try and talk to her.” Tim cranes his head over his shoulder to check if their drinks had miraculously materialized on the bar in the minute since he’d ordered them, then turns his attention back to Jon. “So what’s the plan? We see if we can get an address, and then go from there?”

“More or less.” Jon glances across the pub at the back corner booth, where Sasha and Jane and Martin are carrying on a conversation drowned out entirely at this distance by the din of the pub. “I’ll keep talking to the others, see if I can get them on board for the research bit, at least, but when it comes to follow-up —”

Tim doesn’t give him a chance to finish. “I’m coming with you.”

Jon’s gaze snaps back to him. “Are you sure?” he asks, concerned. “If Jude Perry proves to be as dangerous as Nora claims —”

“Then I’m sure as hell not letting you meet her on your own,” Tim retorts, turning to face him. “You didn’t meet with Nora and Cass alone, _in_ the Institute — why would you try to meet with an unknown, potentially dangerous avatar, _outside_ of the Institute _and_ alone?”

Jon’s face screws into a particularly intense frown. Tim’s seen that look enough times to know that Jon’s trying to figure out a way to dispute his logic and, much to his annoyance, only coming up with ways to prove it. _“Tim —”_ he starts.

 _“Jon,”_ Tim replies, matching his tone. “Look, I _know_ you and Sasha have the spooky Eye powers, but that doesn’t mean you two should automatically get saddled with all the dangerous stuff.” He places a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “It doesn’t even have to be me; Martin or Jane could go with you, too. I’m just asking you to _not_ go alone.”

After a moment, Jon’s shoulders slump. “... I suppose you’re right,” he grudgingly concedes. He looks up at Tim, his gaze serious. “Are you sure? About coming.”

Tim gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Of _course_ I’m sure,” he says. “I’ve got your back, Jon. You can be sure of that.”

 _In pursuit of the Stranger, he may very well find himself in a corner he can’t talk his way out of._ Nora’s knowing voice echoes unbidden in his head. _As one closer to him than I, all I expect you to do is to look out for his best interests._

 _And I will._ Swallowing, Tim gives Jon’s shoulder a quick squeeze before letting his hand fall away. _He might be the only one who can handle this… but I refuse to let him walk that road alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melanie's statement is included in [MAG 117: Testament](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_117:_Testament), and Georgie's statement is [MAG 94: Dead Woman Walking](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_94:_Dead_Woman_Walking).
> 
> While _yes,_ Tim canonically makes _Princess Bride_ jokes, my reference here has less to do with [MAG 162: A Cosy Cabin](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_162:_A_Cosy_Cabin) and far, _far_ more to do with the incredible [_Road to Damascus_ series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594225) by [renwhit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwhit/pseuds/renwhit).
> 
> The seascape painting in Nora's office is modeled after [_Shipwreck_ by William Trost Richards](https://www.pafa.org/museum/collection/item/shipwreck).
> 
> Case 0141010 is [ MAG 87: The Uncanny Valley](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_87:_The_Uncanny_Valley), Case 0132306 is [MAG 54: Still Life](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_54:_Still_Life), Case 0131910 is [MAG 83: Drawing a Blank](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_83:_Drawing_A_Blank), Case 0122204 is [MAG 1: Angler Fish](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_1:_Angler_Fish), and Case 0161704 is [MAG 28: Skintight](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_28:_Skintight).
> 
> (Also, I did indeed map all those connections out when outlining this chapter, so if you want to see the charts that I killed an entire day making — one for the Stranger, one for the Lukas family — they're over on [Tumblr](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/625935740110503936/click-on-both-images-or-open-them-in-a-new-tab)!)


	5. The Wolf in Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding dire miscalculations and deadly confrontations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! These past two (and a half?) months have been a hell of a time, and I think it's safe to say that any hope of me having a regular update schedule for this fic has officially been ruined, but I'M BACK!
> 
> As a heads-up before we launch back into things: even if you don't usually read them, **please check the content warnings in this chapter and the overall tags for this fic.** I've said before that this fic is going to get darker than _The Plague Upon the House_ was, and this chapter... is where that really kicks in.
> 
>  **Recommended Listening:** ["Learning in Public" by Allie X](https://youtu.be/4pAJDrWtMsA) (thanks once again to [@avatarofthebeholding](https://avatarofthebeholding.tumblr.com/) for the song rec!) and ["Panic Room (Acoustic)" by Au/Ra](https://youtu.be/FVT9NVHQ7NU)... specifically in that order! >:)
> 
> _**Content warnings are in the end notes.** _

“... I’m sorry.”

Tim exhales heavily. It’s not the first time Jon has said that this morning, but it _is_ the first time he’s said it since they left A&E — or even _spoken_ since then. The two of them had independently come to the conclusion that sitting in abject, agonizing silence in the back of a cab was better than taking the Tube back to the Institute: if only to elude concerned or morbidly curious attention for a little while longer. 

But now, there is nothing else for them to avoid.

“It’s not your fault.” It’s not the first time Tim has said _that_ this morning, either.

Still, Jon looks no less guilty as his feet drag and stumble up the Institute’s steps, as he searches for some way to justify his guilt. “If you hadn’t been there —” he starts.

“— then it would have been you.” Tim reaches out for the handle of one of the front doors, but his hand freezes mid-air at the flash of white at the edge of his vision and from the pain shooting up his wrist.

Before he can switch to his off hand, Jon moves around him in a burst of agitated speed, wrenching the door open and holding it there for him. Swallowing, Tim lets his bandaged hand fall limply to his side and heads into the Institute.

Jon doesn’t speak again until the door falls shut behind them. “At least it would have been just _me,”_ he says, desperation creeping into his voice. “No one else had to —”

“What else was I supposed to do, Jon?” Tim demands, turning on his heel to face Jon. “Just — just stand there and _watch?”_

Jon inhales sharply. “Tim, I —”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, _period._ Not instead of me, not for _any_ reason.” Tim is trying to keep his voice steady, but it’s hard to make himself heard over the frenetic pounding of his heart. “And if you had been alone, Jude probably would have tried to do far worse, and you know it.”

“But —” Jon protests.

Tim keeps going. “This is why we said we’d stick together in the first place,” he insists. “What we’re up against… it’s _far_ too dangerous to face alone. Even if it means more risk for more people, we _have_ to look out for each other.”

 _“And I didn’t do that,”_ Jon blurts out. “You didn’t want to see me get hurt, but I _never_ wanted to —” His voice breaks, his expression nothing short of distraught.

Tim averts his gaze. _Right,_ he thinks, gut twisting in shame and self-loathing. _That’s… also bad._

Jon lets out a long, shaky breath. “I _know_ we can’t isolate ourselves: especially with Nora around,” he says quietly. “And I know that we stand a better chance of stopping the Stranger if we work together. But —” There’s a strange tremor in his voice now. “In situations like these, that logic is the _last_ thing on my mind.”

Tim still can’t bring himself to raise his head, to almost certainly see Jon staring at him with wide, anguished eyes. It’s already hard enough and profoundly, painfully humbling enough to recognize that as concerned as he’d been for Jon’s safety, Jon had cared just as much about his.

 _… But we_ still _couldn’t protect each other._

After a moment of strained silence, Jon begins to turn away, but stops. “Is that —?” he starts, confused. Then without warning, he takes off across the atrium. _“Basira?”_

Tim’s head snaps up. It takes a moment for him to register who the woman standing at the reception desk is, but once Basira turns in response to Jon’s call, Tim recognizes her instantly, even out of uniform.

“What are you doing here?” Jon is asking her as Tim catches up to him. “I thought —”

Basira cuts him off. “Have you seen Daisy?”

Jon blinks. “You… haven’t?” he asks cautiously.

“Not since February.” Basira crosses her arms. “Last I heard from her, she’d just made an arrest at the Institute, and that’s the last the station heard from her, too.”

Tim frowns. “And you’re the only one looking into that?”

“I mean, the police don’t keep a close eye on —” Basira stops, settling for a shrug to finish her sentence. “Anyway. It’s not unusual for her to go off the grid when working a case. Never this long, though.”

“Well, she hasn’t exactly been undercover,” Jon says dryly. “She was back at the Institute the morning after she arrested Elias — _and_ this past Thursday.”

“That’s what she told me.” Basira jerks her chin to indicate Rosie typing away behind the desk; Tim thinks she would look convincingly busy were it not for the way her eyes keep darting from the three of them to her computer screen and back again. “She just called up to the woman Daisy was here to see. Hopefully, _she_ can give me some answers.”

Tim didn’t think it would be possible for Jon to get any more tense this morning, but somehow, he does. And it’s at that point that Tim also realizes, biting the inside of his cheek, just _who_ Daisy was probably looking for.

Basira notices as well. “What?” she asks flatly.

“That…” Jon clears his throat uncomfortably. “That might not be a good idea.”

Basira’s eyebrows rise. “Why’s that?”

Before Jon can answer, a familiar, richly throaty voice floats through the atrium. “While we’re on the subject of good ideas, _Jon,_ would you mind telling me where you’ve been this entire morning?”

Stomach sinking, Tim looks up. Nora is descending the stairs, perfectly poised as always as she glides across the tile floor towards them. Still, her gaze is cold and decidedly displeased as she looks between Tim’s bandaged hand and Jon’s guilty face.

Jon shifts uncomfortably, but doesn’t answer her.

After a moment, Nora turns her attention to Basira. “I’m Nora Lukas,” she says. “I’ve taken over for Elias following his... _removal.”_ She holds out her hand with a close-mouthed smile. “Constable Hussain, correct?”

“Just Hussain,” Basira says shortly, arms remaining crossed. “I’m not with the force anymore.” 

“I see.” Nora withdraws her hand. “Well, in that case, I’d be happy to answer your questions, Ms. Hussain: as soon as I wrap up other matters.” Her black gaze shifts back to Jon and Tim.

 _Well,_ Tim thinks dryly. _We’re fucked._

“Tim,” Nora says. “May I speak with you in my office?” She’s still smiling that same closed-mouth smile. “One on one.”

Tim swallows. _Correction:_ I’m _fucked._

Jon looks just as panicked as Tim feels. “Nora, I —”

“Fear not, Jon,” Nora says lightly. She turns towards the stairs, but not before Tim sees her gaze freeze over with cold fury once again. “I haven’t forgotten you.”

“How are your investigations going?” Stiltedly moving to the window of his hospital room, Leitner sits in the armchair across from her. “Have you uncovered anything of note?”

Sasha sighs. “They’re… going.” She leans back in her own armchair, fingers drumming against her arm. “Believe it or not, we’re actually having better luck with the Stranger than with Nora or Cass. But… even though like I feel we’re beginning to see _where_ the connections are, we still don’t know _why_ they’re connected.”

“Unsurprising,” Leitner comments. “Inscrutability _is_ the Stranger’s strength.”

“No kidding.” Sasha laughs ruefully. “Still: we’re following up where we can. Jon and Tim went out this morning to interview someone Gertrude mentioned in one of her recordings on the Stranger; hopefully, that’ll…” She shrugs. “Maybe it’ll shed some light on our findings?”

Leitner frowns. “You don’t sound very confident about that outcome.”

Sasha swallows. Finding Jude Perry’s address had been easy enough, but having to watch Jon and Tim walk out of the Archives with the information she’d found for them — and without having any idea of what they might face once they got there — had been unspeakably hard. And considering she hasn’t heard from either of them since this morning (Sasha glances down at her phone, just in case there’s a text she’d somehow missed; there isn’t one), her already-shaky hopes in this venture are close to shattering.

“We’re taking a risk with this,” she finally admits. “I mean, I _hope_ it’ll be worth it, considering we’re going behind Nora’s back to do this, but…” Sasha sighs. “I honestly don’t know.”

Leitner is silent for a moment. “And what of Ms. Lukas and Cassandra?” he finally asks. “You mentioned having less luck with investigating them, but… what _have_ you found?”

“All we know for certain about Cass is that she serves the Eye; apart from that, we know nothing and we’ve found out nothing, not even her surname.” Sasha can’t stop a note of frustration from creeping into her voice. “And what little we’ve pieced together about the Lukases from previous statements hasn’t told us anything new about Nora.”

“Ah. Unfortunate indeed.” Leitner sighs. “Again, I wish I had more to tell you, but aside from that book —”

“Actually, _about_ that...” Sasha says slowly. “I _did_ end up looking into that book. And I did find _something,_ but… honestly, I don’t know what to make of it.” She pauses. “But I think _you_ might.”

“Hmm.” Leitner shifts in his seat, expression thoughtful. “Well, I — perhaps,” he admits, almost modest, but there’s no hiding the gleam of curiosity in his gaze. “What was it that you found?”

Sasha takes a deep breath. “So,” she says, “the record of that particular lot was really sparse on details about the book. A title, the _barest_ provenance imaginable, and… not much else.” She shrugs, her arms uncrossing with the motion. “Tracking down older auction records didn’t add any more information, and even Martin, poetry buff that he is, had no idea what poem it might be based on the title alone.” She lets out a short laugh. “Maxwell, Baudelaire, Kipling... apparently nineteenth-century poets _really_ liked to write about vampires.”

Leitner chuckles as well. “Shame they couldn’t be more creative with their titles.”

 _“But,_ the title is only part of the problem,” Sasha insists. “The real problem is, not _one_ of these auction houses seems to have opened the book to check which poem is _actually_ inside. The Bloomsbury listing even stated flat-out that the book was in ‘unopened, pristine condition.’”

Leitner’s amusement fades, his grey eyes taking on a guiltier cast.

Sasha leans forward in her seat to meet his gaze. “You told me before that your assistant’s research led you to believe that it would make a good addition to your library,” she says. “You didn’t go into detail about what they found out, but —” She takes a deep breath, hoping her question comes out as just _that._ “Did that research explain why _The Vampyre_ wasn’t read?”

Leitner sighs; Sasha is instantly relieved by his hesitation. “Unfortunately, yes,” he says. He laces his frail fingers together in his lap. “I’m… sure you noticed that although the book’s provenance is light on transmission details, it is nevertheless… quite lengthy.”

Sasha nods. “More than thirty owners in the eighty years since it first went up for auction.”

Leitner looks impressed. “You must have had a lot of time to put that chain of transmission together,” he remarks. “Mikaele spent _weeks_ looking into _The Vampyre,_ and he still only made it back as far as the late 1940s.”

Sasha shrugs awkwardly. It had hardly taken her weeks, or even _a_ week, to find the information she sought. Granted, she still couldn’t quite explain _how_ she managed to find all of it: the online archives on websites long since archived themselves, lines upon lines of transactions within dusty catalogues and tattered files, a blurred column in a newspaper microfilm stored in some battered cabinet in some back office. And it wasn’t that any of that information was difficult, or even of questionable legality, to find. It was just that, unlike with the Stranger, the path she was tracing was far easier for her to see.

 _Or — or_ see.

“So, why all the changes in ownership?” she asks, brushing off the dread slowly starting to creep over her skin. “Did Mikaele figure that out?”

Leitner sighs again. “It’s… difficult to say precisely why that happened,” he says slowly. “But, broadly speaking, _The Vampyre_ seemed to have a rather disquieting effect on its readers based on their particular relationship to whoever had held the book before them.” He settles back into his seat, fingers tightening around each other. “Mikaele said there was no way of knowing for certain whether it was physical or legal transmission that cemented that bond — but whatever the connection, he concluded that reading the book instilled a sort of… _obsession_ in the reader with that other person.”

Sasha frowns, suddenly wary. “When you say ‘obsession’ —”

“— I don’t mean of the violently covetous variety,” Leitner amends. “After obtaining and reading the book, none of these readers seem to have had any contact with the object of their obsession, let alone do any harm to them.” His face is grey and grim. “No, the obsession those unfortunate readers seemed to experience was more of an insurmountable melancholy. A deeply-felt, but unfulfilled longing for that other person, to the point of despair and depression and…” He exhales heavily. “All its tragic consequences.”

Sasha recrosses her arms as she considers that information, trying to ignore the strange chill settling over her. “That… certainly sounds like an artifact of the Lonely.”

Leitner nods. “Indeed.”

Sasha sighs. “... Which now explains why Nora isn’t the only Lukas to have owned _The Vampyre.”_

Leitner’s gaze snaps to her, suddenly alarmed.

 _“That_ was the detail that didn’t add up,” Sasha says quietly. “Because, as far as I can tell, the first time _The Vampyre_ went up for auction was in 1912.” She pauses. “As part of the estate sale of one Mordechai Lukas.”

Leitner’s forehead furrows. “You say that name like I should know who he is.”

“Actually, I didn’t know who he was, either,” Sasha confesses. “Not until Martin and I were sharing our research with Jon and… well, according to Jon, he was one of the original benefactors of the Institute.” Her throat tightens slightly. “He was in the — that portrait. The one whose plaque we got the combination for Elias’ desk drawer from.”

Leitner’s frown deepens. “But that — that can’t possibly be right,” he murmurs, more to himself. “If the Institute was founded in 1818, and if Mr. Lukas died in 1912 —”

“— then Mordechai Lukas lived to be _well_ over one hundred years old,” Sasha finishes. “Which —” She sighs. “Honestly, that’s the _least_ baffling question raised by this information.” Her fingers are drumming against her arms again, their nervous rhythm picking up speed as she thinks out loud. “If the Lukases have been patrons of the Institute since its founding, why liquidate the estate of the man who started that partnership? And why do it publicly, instead of keeping it within the family like they seem to tend to do? _And —”_ Sasha hears her voice hit a strange, strident note as her questions relentlessly carry her forward “— if that constituted some sort of — of _disavowal_ of Mordechai, why was Nora trying to buy back pieces of her grandfather’s estate regardless?”

Leitner blinks. “Her… _grandfather?”_

Sasha stops, her mouth hanging open as she realizes, her dread returning in a surge of static, what she’s just said. What she just _knew,_ just like before.

Except now, as her skin prickles in a horribly familiar way, she knows _exactly_ where it came from.

“I — I should go,” she manages, bolting out of her seat and grabbing her coat from the back of the armchair. 

“Sasha —” Leitner struggles to his feet. “Sasha, hold _on —”_

But Sasha’s already out the door.

“How much pain are you in?” Nora asks, closing the office door. For all the displeasure coiled underneath her even demeanor, the question is surprisingly calm.

Tim scoffs. “Why do _you_ care?”

Nora breezes by him. “I think I’m entitled to be concerned for the wellbeing of my people,” she says archly. “Don’t you?”

Tim feels his jaw tighten. Nora casually referring to him and the others as _her people_ really rubs him the wrong way — granted, the possessiveness of her calling them _her staff_ or _her employees_ wouldn’t have been much better, but _her people_ assumes a closeness that she has no claim to.

“It hurts,” he says shortly. He follows her to the desk, sitting down in the chair before it. “That’s enough.”

It’s nowhere near enough, but Tim is at a loss for words to describe pain like this. Even though he can no longer see the blistering burn that has painted his swollen palm in wet, shiny scarlet, even though his entire hand has been cleaned and coated in antibiotic ointment and covered in sterile bandages, he can still _feel_ it: stabbing deep into the tendons of his hand and wrist, boiling and scalding his bones, seizing up his muscles as far as his shoulder.

The doctor who’d treated him at A&E had commented in passing that he was profoundly unlucky in this regard. If it had been a third-degree burn, it would have pierced right through all the layers of the skin, damaging the nerve endings and dulling much of the immediate pain in the vicinity. But for second-degree burns, with only partial penetration of the skin — burns like the one Tim had suffered and was still suffering from — the nerve endings were left alive and screaming in agony.

Judging from what he now knows about Jude Perry, and about the power she serves, Tim has a sickening feeling that this was _very_ much intentional. 

Nora pauses at the corner of her desk, her marble-hard expression softening into something almost sympathetic. She crosses to the nearest bookcase, to a shelf newly arrayed with crystal glasses and decanters of liquor, and holds up one of the glasses for him to see: a silent, but clear invitation. 

Tim almost shakes his head, purely on principle. But then a muscle spasms painfully in his palm, and he finds himself nodding instead. 

Uncorking one of the decanters, Nora pours a splash of its contents into the glass, the faint spice of some strong alcohol diffusing in the air. She then returns to the desk, presenting the glass to him. 

Tim reaches for it with one hand, then realizes, once again, that he’s using the wrong one. Sighing in defeat, he raises his other hand and carefully cups both hands around the glass to take it from Nora. Even though there’s no ice in his drink, the glass is nevertheless freezing cold, the chill of the crystal seeping through the thick swathe of bandages and almost making his burned hand feel _normal._

Tim inhales the aroma, then takes a sip: just like Danny had taught him, back when his chosen passion had been distillery tours. It’s whisky — _good_ whisky, judging from how smoothly it rolls around in his mouth and slides down his throat — and it curls warmly around his stomach without burning him any further. 

Conscious of Nora’s lingering gaze, Tim exhales. “... Thanks,” he says grudgingly.

Nora nods. She takes her own seat behind her desk, propping one elbow up on the arm of her chair. “Tell me what happened,” she says. “When you’re ready.”

Tim takes another sip of whisky. “Well,” he says once that’s swallowed. “We found Jude Perry.”

“I gathered as much.” Nora’s measured voice is tinged with dryness.

Tim bristles at her tone. “We met her in the open,” he says, hating how defensive he sounds. “In a park in Havering. So that she wouldn’t —” 

Nora’s eyebrows arch in silent rebuke. 

Tim sighs, his fingers tightening around the cold glass. This wasn’t the time for excuses: especially since the outcome had been entirely inexcusable. “Jon asked her about the Stranger’s operations in Gwydir Forest, and she confirmed she’d had a hand in starting the forest fire there,” he says. “Apparently, Nikola Orsinov asked, and the Cult of the Lightless Flame was more than happy to answer.”

Nora’s brow furrows. “‘Nikola Orsinov’?”

“Whoever she is, she’s probably with the Stranger,” Tim says heavily. “Gregor Orsinov was the ringmaster for the Circus of the Other back in the day, so…” He shrugs. “Makes sense that it would run in the family.”

Nora tilts her head, conceding his point. “Did Ms. Perry say anything else?”

Tim snorts. “Plenty. Mostly insults and threats, but…” He pauses. “We _did_ get a name. Someone else to talk to if we wanted to ‘keep chatting to things that could kill us,’ as Jude so _charmingly_ put it — but I actually think we have a statement or two involving this guy, so she’s probably not wrong.” He takes a third sip of whisky. “His name’s Mike Crew.”

Nora frowns. _“Mike?”_

Tim lowers the glass from his mouth, surprised. “You... know him?”

“We have acquaintances in common, but I don’t know him _all_ that well.” Nora leans a little more heavily on the chair arm, her frown deepening. “Still, I can’t fathom how he might be mixed up in the _Stranger’s_ business; I thought his dilettante days were done.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t tell you that,” Tim says. “Jude didn’t exactly want to answer any more questions after Jon got her statement.” He drains the rest of the whisky, wincing at the slightly harsher burn of excess liquor surging down his throat. “All she wanted was a handshake. In return for Mike’s address.”

Nora’s gaze flickers to his bandaged hand. “So,” she says quietly. _“That’s_ how that happened.”

“Not quite like that.” Tim lets both of his hands fall into his lap, cradling the glass there; even empty, it remains strangely cold. “Jon was — he _was_ going to do it, despite everything. But then he hesitated, and —” he laughs, short and humorless “— and Jude clearly _wasn’t,_ so…” He trails off, shrugging. “So, _I_ didn’t hesitate either.”

Tim knew he’d made a terrible mistake as soon as he’d grabbed Jude’s wrist, before _she_ could seize Jon’s retreating hand and force that handshake she’d demanded from them. But as his hand sunk into the searingly hot wax that formed her flesh, there was nothing he could do to take it back — nothing left to do but _scream_ over the awful sizzle of his burning skin as Jude laughed and laughed and _laughed._

Nora studies him. Her expression is pensive, almost perturbed, but her gaze is as dark as when she’d met him and Jon in the atrium.

Tim does his best to shake off the memory. “... That’s it,” he says dully. “Jon was just trying to get information, and I — I was just trying to look out for him. Like you _said_ I should do.” His voice is harder now. “Blame Jude if you want — hell, blame _me_ for being stupid enough to grab her after I saw her remold her face — but Jon’s _not_ at fault here.”

Nora considers it for a moment. “Perhaps not entirely,” she says. She reaches across her desk for the phone, dialing a number. “But although your devotion to Jon is admirable, you _do_ have to admit he’s far from blameless.”

Tim stiffens in his seat. “But you —”

Nora holds up a finger as she cradles the receiver to her ear. “Rosie, is Jon still in the atrium?” she asks. A pause. “Call down to the Archives, then.” Her black eyes lock on Tim, cold and depthless. “It’s high time I heard _his_ statement on the matter.”

Despite having yanked on her coat by the lift opens on the ground floor of the hospital, Sasha can still feel every single goosebump raised on her skin by the Eye’s gaze as she shakily steps out. 

_There’s no ignoring it._ She starts to walk down the hallway towards the lobby, hugging her coat a bit tighter around herself, for what little good it does to dispel her chill. _The Eye marked me out as its own long before now — but now it’s making that mark_ very _visible._

When Jon had told her what little he knew about Mordechai Lukas, he’d also admitted _how_ he’d known it. All he’d had to do was look between a dead man in a painting and the living spectre standing before it, and the Eye had connected the two for him. And all Sasha had to do was find and follow a forgotten paper trail that should have long since crumbled away into ash and oblivion, and the Eye had led her to that final conclusion.

In some ways, unearthing these secrets feels _worse_ than the compulsion. At least she knows what to expect from her questions and knows how to take care when asking them. But receiving answers that she never wanted to know, that maybe no one _should_ ever know — answers to questions she never intended to ask, would _never_ ask — 

She can’t return that key once the Eye presents it to her, and there’s no returning from the threshold of the door it unlocks. And by the time the key slips through her fingers to the bloody floor of the forbidden room, it’s far too late for her to unsee the horrors within.

“Which room?”

Sasha stops in her tracks at the familiar, but unexpected voice. Suddenly wary, she quietly inches over to the arched doorway leading into the lobby and sneaks a glance around the corner.

Both hands planted on the reception desk, Detective Tonner glowers down at the hospital receptionist. Even out of uniform, her stance and stare is unmistakably and aggressively authoritative. “Which room?” she repeats, an edge to her voice.

Though the receptionist seems taken aback, she’s still holding her own. “Are you family?”

Tonner leans in, looming over her that much more. “Metropolitan Police.”

Even at a distance, Sasha sees the trepidation in the receptionist’s eyes. “... Can I see some ID, then?”

Tonner’s eyes narrow. But she straightens up, and, still glaring at the receptionist, she flicks aside her jacket to reach for something at her belt.

And as Tonner retrieves her badge, the metal flashing under the fluorescent ceiling lamps, the light also catches the gleam of a pocket knife clip. 

Startled, Sasha jerks back around the corner. She blinks furiously, trying to make sense of what she’d glimpsed, but all the light spots dancing in front of her eyes glint like the metal of that knife. Like the clip hidden under Tonner’s jacket. Like the handle Tonner would grip and free from her belt. Like the blade she would flick open and slash across — 

Sasha’s skin erupts in prickling once again, pins and needles piercing even deeper than before as she sprints back down the hall, heart in her throat. Running straight past the lift, she lurches into the stairwell and takes the steps two at a time back to the floor she’d just left behind — back down the hallway she’d just ran through — back to the door she’d just slammed behind her in her panic and — 

“Sasha?” Leitner looked to be just sitting down by the window again, but he reels to his feet when she bursts back in, leaning heavily on the armchair. “What’s —?”

“Detective Tonner’s here,” Sasha gasps, shoving the door shut. She doesn’t know if there’s a lock on the door, so she settles for leaning against it while she catches her breath. “And I think —” She swallows. “I think she’s here to kill you.”

Leitner stares at her, shocked into silence. Although he looks like he wants to ask her how she knows that, the grave look in his eyes tells Sasha that he already suspects what her answer will be.

Even so, there’s no time to speculate on why _this_ is the latest secret that the Eye has thrust before her vision. Not when Detective Tonner could be stalking up the stairs at this very moment, following Sasha’s trail to the prey she’s chasing.

Leitner knows this, too. “What do we do?”

“Um —” Leaving the door, Sasha starts to pace. “How well can you move?”

“Running’s quite out of the question,” Leitner says with a trace of black humor. He moves away from the window, slowly but surely. “But I can walk.”

“Okay. Okay. Um —” Still pacing, Sasha runs her hands through her hair, fingers digging into her scalp as if she could pry open her skull and physically put her thoughts in order. “The Institute’s not far from here. If we can get out of the building, get down to the Tube — or maybe I can hail a cab —” She stops. “But how do we get out unnoticed?” she mutters, glancing behind her at the door. _God, where’s Michael when I_ actually _need him?_

Leitner grabs the bathrobe from the foot of his bed, throwing it on over his pajamas. “I assume she’s coming from the main entrance?”

Sasha nods. “Whether we go by lift or stairs, there’s a fifty-fifty chance we’ll run into her. But if —” 

She stops again, a new and intriguing possibility suddenly occurring to her. Although she hadn’t really registered them in her frantic rush from Leitner’s hospital room, let alone her rush back, Sasha _had_ noticed two critical details about the hallway she was passing through upon her initial arrival that morning.

The first was the clearly labeled, and even more clearly alarmed, emergency exit at the end of the hallway. The second was the fire alarm pull station directly across from Leitner’s room.

Surprisingly, Sasha feels a wry grin twisting her mouth. _Well,_ she thinks, _it’s not like this is my first time pulling a fire alarm for reasons totally unrelated to fire._

“If —?” Leitner prompts.

“Get ready.” Sasha reaches for the door handle. “And when you hear the fire alarm, _go.”_

The first place Jon’s gaze goes once he steps into Nora’s office is to Tim. Although Tim thinks Jon looks a little taken aback at first to see him sitting in front of Nora’s desk with an empty whisky glass between his hands, the emotion that overwhelms his expression is a profound _relief._

And then Nora’s attention snaps to Jon as he closes the door. “Well?”

Jon instantly bristles. “Well _what?”_

“What do you have to say for yourself, Jon?” Nora folds her hands before her. “What possessed you to not just _ignore_ my advice, but to go behind my back and act against it?”

“Well, _maybe,”_ Jon says tightly, stepping up to the desk, “I didn’t trust your advice.”

Tim winces. As much as he appreciates Jon’s stubbornness and snippiness, this isn’t the time for either of those things — and _definitely_ not the person for them.

Despite the dark look in her eyes, Nora remains strangely self-possessed. “Then where _did_ you place your trust?” she asks. “In another? In yourself? Or was it in your _god?”_

“I —” Jon falters, doubt flashing across his face.

“I _can_ understand that, if the latter was the case,” Nora continues, still unnervingly calm. “The Eye grasps after any knowledge it espies, and you were prepared to get it at any price Jude Perry could have named.” She pauses. “But you weren’t the one who _paid.”_

Tim gapes at her, outraged. “Now wait a damn minute —”

Nora holds up a finger to silence him once again. “I told you of the danger Jude Perry posed because I promised you that, as the head of the Institute, I would do my utmost to protect you and your people.” She leans over the desk, her voice now as icy and pitiless as her eyes as she glares at Jon. “But I can only do so much, _Jon,_ when you not only _refuse_ to listen to me, but recklessly risk your own life — _and_ the lives of others.”

For a moment, Jon just stares back at her, speechless and seething. Then he inhales, his fists unclenching slightly. “If you’re really trying to protect us,” he says, his voice clear and quietly cutting, “then tell me the _real_ reason you didn’t want us talking to Jude Perry.”

Even though the sudden prickling of Jon’s threatened compulsion barely brushes across Tim’s skin, his stomach plummets in dread.

Nora leans back in her chair, gaze freezing over in that same cold fury as before. Then, without a word, she opens a drawer in her desk and retrieves her silver cigarette case and matching lighter.

Jon jerks back from the desk. His sudden recoil catches Tim’s eye, but when he turns his head fully, he’s instantly alarmed by how ashen Jon’s face has become.

Nora selects a cigarette and lights it, her gaze still darkly, dangerously fixed on Jon. “I believe I already made myself perfectly clear in that regard.” She takes a slow, deliberate drag of her cigarette, exhaling through pursed lips. “Now: do you have any other questions, or are you satisfied?”

Jon swallows. One hand has crept up towards his throat, fingers digging into the ridge of his collarbone: as if readying to guard his neck against some unseen threat.

Tim’s dread deepens on seeing that strange gesture again: something he hasn’t seen Jon do since he reported on his very first meeting with Nora all those months ago. Whatever unspoken ultimatum Nora has just issued, this clearly isn’t the first time Jon’s received it.

But this time, Jon isn’t alone.

“You said you know Mike Crew,” Tim says evenly. Placing the empty whisky glass next to the bone-white ashtray on the corner of Nora’s desk, he stands, placing himself between Jon and Nora. “Can you put us in touch with him?”

Nora’s gaze shifts to Tim, considering his question. “... I can,” she finally says. She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray, then reaches for the phone, faint smoke still swirling around her head. “Cassandra’s already out on reconnaissance; I’ll see if she has time to call on him and arrange a meeting for later in the week.”

“‘Reconnaissance’?” Tim asks, surprised.

“She’s scoping out the Trophy Room,” Nora says briskly, glancing back at Jon. “Based on the information you and Sasha presented to me, I thought it might —”

Before Nora can pick up the phone, it rings.

Nora frowns, but answers it. “Hello.” A pause. She sighs, closing her eyes in irritation. “Rosie, if Ms. Hussain’s back, tell her to —” Another pause. Her eyes open, flickering from Jon to Tim. Then she places the receiver on the desk and hits a button. “Rosie, you’re on speaker now; can you please repeat that?”

 _“Sasha’s here asking about Jon.”_ Rosie’s voice is as chipper as always, but there’s a clear thread of curiosity in it. _“She’s got an elderly gentleman with her; she says it’s quite —”_

Rosie’s voice is abruptly lost in the sound of some small scuffle. Jon and Tim exchange alarmed looks, but the apparent battle for the phone is over almost as soon as it began.

 _“Sorry, Rosie,”_ Sasha apologizes hastily. _“No time to waste.”_ She then raises her voice. _“Hello? Jon?”_

“Sasha?” Jon leans over Nora’s desk, brow furrowing. “Sasha, what’s going on? Is —” He glances warily at Nora, but continues. “Is _Leitner_ with you?”

Nora’s eyes gleam with sudden intrigue, but she doesn’t comment.

 _“Y-yes.”_ Now that Sasha’s on the line, Tim notes that she sounds out-of-breath, like she’s sprinted all the way back to the Institute. _“We — we had to flee the hospital; Detective Tonner —”_

Sasha’s suddenly cut off by a strangled cry and more sounds of a struggle: but over something considerably heavier-sounding than a phone receiver. Heart pounding, Tim leans in, trying to make out anything distinct, when Sasha gasps sharply.

 _“Drop it.”_ Even at a distance, the low, furious, familiar voice still comes through the speaker loud and clear.

Jon claps his hand over his mouth, his expression even more ashen than before.

On the other end of the line, the phone clatters on something with a sharp _crack_ before going completely dead.

The phone lies on the floor before Sasha’s feet, its plastic splintered on the end that had first hit the tile. Sasha realizes then that she can’t hear anything from the other end of the line, not even a dial tone, and her already-churning stomach tightens. 

Raising her shaking gaze, Sasha locks eyes with Rosie. It does absolutely nothing to ease her terror to see Rosie — unflappable, unfazed Rosie — just as wide-eyed and immobilized with fear as she is.

“Turn around.” Tonner’s voice is biting. _“Slowly.”_

Swallowing, Sasha slowly does just that.

Leitner stands, utterly stiff apart from his trembling knees, in Tonner’s grip. One of her arms is across his neck, her hand clenched around his shoulder; Sasha can’t see her other hand, but she can’t shake the growing suspicion that the pocket knife she’d glimpsed earlier is clutched in it.

“Detective,” she tries, her voice hoarse and strained, “don’t —”

“Shut up,” Tonner snaps. She digs her fingers into Leitner’s shoulder, making him wince. “Come on.”

Without thinking, Sasha steps forward. “You _can’t —”_

“I said, _shut up.”_ Tonner punctuates her words with a jab from her hidden hand, and Leitner groans and twists in sudden pain. “And unless you want his spine split open right here, you stay put. You too,” she adds, glaring over at Rosie.

Rosie is too shocked to even nod.

Sasha feels her breaths coming short and shallow, her heart vibrating in her chest with sheer panic. _I can’t do this again,_ is all she can think. _I can’t watch someone almost die in front of me and do_ nothing. _Not him. Not again._

 _But what_ can _I do?_

“Sasha —” Leitner gasps. “Ask —”

His words end in a choked wheeze as Tonner’s arm tightens around his neck. “What did I just say?” she hisses. 

_“Ask.”_ That one word knocks what little breath remains from Sasha’s lungs. _Before I_ knew _things, I could still ask about them, if unintentionally,_ she realizes. _Ask Jane for answers. Ask Tim and Jon for their statements._

 _But… can I use questions like Jon does, like he did to destroy the Hive? Can I_ compel?

Even as she asks herself that, she knows there’s no time to question whether or not she _can,_ let alone _should._ There’s only enough time to _do._

“Why are you doing this?” Sasha shouts. Her voice is no longer hoarse, but clear and commanding, like the tolling of a great bell. _“Tell me!”_

“Shut —” Tonner starts angrily. Then she stops, her mouth hanging slack as her arm loosens around Leitner’s neck.

Sasha waits with bated breath.

“I don’t have a _choice.”_ Tonner’s voice is strained and raw, as if every word is being physically dragged up her throat. “I _need_ to eliminate him, or —” She stops again, breathing hard.

“Or?” As soon as she asks, Sasha realizes that her voice doesn’t have the same strange, ringing timbre as before.

Her attention entirely turned away from Leitner now, Tonner stares at her, eyes narrowed and full of loathing. “... So,” she says. “You’re like him, too.”

A strange trickle of fear slithers down Sasha’s spine.

_“Sasha!”_

Hearing her name yelled, Sasha whips her head around. Tim is jumping down the last of the stairs, Jon hot on his heels, and just behind the two of them is — 

Then there is another cry of alarm, and a heavy _thud._ And before Sasha can turn back to see Leitner sprawled on the floor, Tonner is on her. 

Hand closing around her neck, Tonner forces her back against the reception desk, pinning her down. Sasha frantically tries to fight her off, hands pummeling and legs kicking desperately, but Tonner is far too strong and — 

— and then something flat and cold presses against her throat, and Sasha’s muscles instantly seize up.

“Daisy —” she faintly hears Jon plead through the rush of blood pumping through her ears. “Daisy, _don’t —”_

“Why don’t you all just _shut up_ and stay out of my way?” Tonner snarls. As she speaks, the blade of the pocket knife tilts, and Sasha suddenly feels its sharpness on her skin. 

_No —_ She opens her mouth to try and say something, _anything,_ but the knife is _there_ and she knows all too well what it’s there to do. _I can’t — I_ can’t — 

“Got something you want to say?” Tonner leans in, a vicious, inhuman gleam in her eyes. “Save your last breath.”

An unbidden whimper squeaks out of Sasha’s throat.

And then the knife bites into her skin, and Sasha’s vision blurs with tears as all efforts at bravery are ripped from her grasp, as she drowns in the terror of how _sharp_ everything suddenly is, and how _cold —_

Everything is cold.

Everything around her is grey and grim and cold, and she can’t see anything through the smothering shroud of fog, not even Tonner’s hateful gaze, and she is so lost and so alone and so _cold —_

— and then she _isn’t._

Sasha gasps, her throat burning hot and wet. Her knees buckle and she doubles over, pitching towards the floor. But before she falls, someone grabs hold of her again, and she lashes out at them in blind panic.

“Sasha —” Tim’s voice, breaking in sheer relief. “Sasha — it’s _me;_ I’ve got you —” He hugs her close, lowering her down to the floor even as his whole body shakes. “I’ve got you.” 

“Tim?” Her question comes out as a croak, but it’s such a shock that anything comes out at all. “Is my —?”

Tim wordlessly presses his hand against her neck, where her pulse is still pounding. Eye caught by the flash of white as he moves, Sasha manages to look down just enough to see that his hand is entirely wrapped in bandages. For a moment, she thinks about asking what happened to him, but her head is still swimming from the rush of blood, so she just lets it fall limply against his shoulder.

White blurs across Sasha’s vision again as Nora glides past the two of them, pausing next to where Leitner had been shoved to the floor. “Jurgen Leitner,” she says, her voice tinged with some amusement. “A pleasure to make your reacquaintance.” She extends her hand down to him. “Although I will admit, the circumstances are less than ideal.”

Leitner just stares at her, still clearly dazed. “... Indeed,” he manages. He allows her to help him to his feet, cautiously looking around the atrium as he stands. “Where is — what did you do?”

It is then that Sasha notices that Detective Tonner is nowhere to be seen.

Nora’s gaze darkens. “What I should have done when she was prowling around the Institute last week.” She crosses to Sasha and Tim, crouching down to meet Sasha’s eyes. “Sasha,” she greets her. “Are you badly hurt?”

Sasha slides her fingers underneath Tim’s hand, feeling at her neck. Her fingertips come away sticky and smelling of copper, but it’s only a trickle of blood, not the fatal gout she’d feared. “I — I don’t think so?” she manages; she’s still able to speak, so she supposes that’s a good sign.

Nora nods. Picking the phone up off the floor, she then straightens up to address Rosie. “And you, Rosie?” she asks briskly. “Are you all right?”

“Um —” Rosie lets out a long, unsteady breath, then gives Nora a shaking smile. “I suppose?”

“Good.” Nora hands the phone to her. “When you’ve collected yourself, please call Cassandra and tell her I need her back at the Institute right away. And Jon —” she turns to him “— gather the rest of your people and come to my office as soon as you’re able.” 

Jon swallows, clearly hesitant.

“Don’t fret, Jon,” Nora dismisses. “Thanks to Detective Tonner, your defiance is now the least of my concerns.” She sweeps away towards the stairs, leaving a chill in the empty air behind her. “And frankly, she concerns us _all.”_

“Daisy was _here?”_ Basira asks, disbelieving. “Just _now?”_

“She — she _was,”_ Jon says carefully. He turns the corner and starts down the corridor leading to Nora’s office, anxiety knotting his stomach with every step. “But Nora —”

“The pale posh one?” Frowning, Basira follows him. “What about her?”

Jon sighs, rubbing at his temples. “I — I don’t know,” he confesses. “I don’t know _what —”_ He stops, changing tack. “I don’t know why she’s gathering us, but whatever it is, it’s about Daisy.”

Basira scrutinizes him. “And why’s that?”

Jon hesitates, his hand hovering over the doorknob. “... You’ll see soon enough,” he finally manages, then opens the door.

In stark contrast to his previous visits to Nora’s office during her tenure — to say nothing of his visits when the office still belonged to Elias — the small room seems incredibly overcrowded. Nora leans back against her desk, arms crossed as she waits, while Leitner sits unsteadily in her desk chair. The Archives staff clusters by the windows, flanking Sasha like bodyguards; though the shallow cut across her neck has been bandaged, Sasha still hovers close to Jane’s side, still clearly shaken.

However, as he and Basira enter and as he closes the door behind them, Jon instantly notices two absences. The first is that the single chair in front of Nora’s desk is curiously empty. And the second is that Daisy is not among those assembled.

Nora raises her gaze to them, her expression hardening when she sees Basira at Jon’s side. “What is she doing here?” she asks pointedly.

 _“She_ came here looking for her partner,” Basira retorts, stepping forward. “And whatever’s about to happen here, about her, _I_ want to know about it.” She looks around the office, then back at Nora. “So. Where’s Daisy?”

Before Nora can answer, the door slams open behind them.

“Nora!” Shoving the door shut, Cass elbows past Jon and Basira and races to Nora’s side. “Are you okay?” she asks frantically. “Rosie told me —”

“I’m perfectly fine, Cassandra.” Unfolding her arms and taking Cass’ hands, Nora smiles down at her: a strange, sad little expression. “You forget I have no small power of my own.”

“But you _know —”_ Cass stops, swallowing; Jon’s shocked to see her look so genuinely _upset._ “I should have been here,” she tries again. “I could have _helped —”_

“But you’re here _now,”_ Nora says reassuringly. “And I could very much use your help with Detective Tonner.” She gives Cass’ hands a small squeeze and then releases them, looking over at Jon. “Yours as well.”

Cass’ face brightens, understanding clearly dawning.

“Help… with _what?”_ Jon asks slowly. But even as he asks, he has a horrible, sinking feeling that he already knows the answer.

“I think by now, we all have quite a few questions for Detective Tonner.” Nora reaches behind her for the silver cigarette case and lighter on the desk. “And you and Cassandra are going to help me get some answers.”

Basira shoots Jon a suspicious glance, but says nothing.

Nora selects and lights a second cigarette. Jon tenses instinctively, but as he does, he notices the faint tremor running through Nora’s hand as she balances the cigarette between her dully pale fingers. 

Jon swallows, a peculiar mixture of emotions seeping through him at the sight. Still, he doesn’t call attention to it: just watches and waits for Nora’s next move.

Hand still trembling ever so slightly, Nora raises the cigarette to her lips and inhales deeply, for far longer than Jon would even think possible. Then, eyelids fluttering shut in quiet, pained concentration, she exhales.

The sharp, salty scent of sea mist suddenly fills the office as smoke billows from Nora’s mouth, curling and coalescing before her into a thick, impenetrable fog. But even through the misty haze, Jon can make out a shadowy, shuddering form, falling seemingly out of nowhere and into the empty chair.

Then Nora sweeps her still-shaking hand before her, and the fog clears — and Daisy is lying collapsed in the chair.

“Daisy!” Basira bolts from Jon’s side, clutching at one of Daisy’s limp hands. “Daisy, can you hear me?”

Nora leans heavily on her desk and takes another drag from her cigarette, despite appearing utterly winded. Cass presses herself against Nora’s side, sliding a supportive arm around her shoulder, but she doesn’t take her bright gaze off Daisy. Sasha is also staring at Daisy, but with abject fear in her eyes; Leitner looks similarly unnerved. In stark contrast, Jane and Tim’s glares are scorching, and even Martin’s face holds no sympathy. 

As Jon tentatively circles around the chair to rejoin Basira, Daisy’s eyes open. She blinks sluggishly, her gaze far-away and unfocused. “... Basira?” Her voice sounds raspy, unused. “Is that… is that really you?”

Basira nods. “It’s me,” she says simply. “I’m here.”

Confusion creeps across Daisy’s chalky face. “But why are —?” She trails off as her gaze travels to Jon, and her expression instantly hardens. “Are you helping _them?”_

“What? No, I — I’m here for _you,”_ Basira insists. “Where have you been? And —” She lets Daisy’s hand fall from her grasp as she straightens up to stare accusingly at Nora. “And what the _hell_ did you do to her?”

Nora continues to smoke in silence, her own face as drained of color as Daisy’s.

Cass pipes up. “She was cast out,” she says lightly, slipping away from Nora’s side and coming closer to Basira and Daisy. “To a place where there are no steps to track and where the blood is silent.” She flicks at a loose strand of Daisy’s hair: sapped of what little color it once had. “The Lonely wouldn’t have swallowed you up as swiftly as the Hunt, but trust me: it’s no less ravenous.”

 _“The Hunt”?_ Jon’s stomach twists at the title. _Is that — and Daisy is —?_

“What are you talking about?” Daisy snaps, but there’s barely any bite to her words.

Cass grins at her, eyes bright. “You may not have a name for it, but I think you know very well what speaks to you, and what you stalk.” She lifts Daisy’s hand, the one Basira had clasped just moments before, and turns it over, experimentally pressing the pads of her fingers against Daisy’s jaggedly filed nails. “Besides, there are _so_ many more names that can speak to your hunger, _Alice.”_

 _“Don’t —”_ Face blanching even further, Daisy tries to jerk her hand away.

Cass just laughs. “So many souls have pleaded with you _exactly_ like that, haven’t they?” she mocks. “Before your hands crushed their throats and choked their cries. Before your fingers curled around a knife or pulled a trigger.” Her gaze flickers down to Daisy’s hand. “And I can see their blood staining your hands as plainly as all this dirt from unmarked graves underneath your claws.”

Sasha swallows. Jane’s glare deepens.

Daisy stares up at Cass, some of her former sharpness creeping back into her face. “Know all that, do you?” she asks flatly.

Cass smirks. “And then some.”

The taunt has barely left Cass’ mouth when Daisy twists her hand around to grab Cass’ wrist, yanking her down to eye level. “Then you _know,”_ she hisses, “what I can do to freaks like _you.”_

Jon freezes in alarm. Despite her exhaustion, Nora straightens in an instant, black eyes flashing in warning. Basira sucks in a sudden breath, but doesn’t move.

Surprisingly, Cass seems mostly unbothered. “You _Hunters!”_ she laughs. “So impulsive. So driven by instinct. So impatient to reach the end of the chase — and yet, so reluctant to take that final step.” She leans in a little closer to Daisy. _“So,_ after all those months of lying in wait, why so quick to strike at Leitner _now?”_

Daisy doesn’t answer, but her hand squeezes Cass’ wrist like a vise.

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Cass cranes her head around Daisy to address Jon. “I could _really_ use your help here, Archivist,” she says. “One tiny little leading question is all it’ll take for her to spill her guts.” She gives her trapped wrist an idle tug, but to no avail. “Preferably _before_ she spills mine?”

Nausea rises in Jon’s throat. “I’m not going to compel —”

“— a mass murderer?” Cass asks pointedly. “Someone who would have killed two people in cold blood before your very eyes?”

Martin shifts his feet uneasily. Tim crosses his arms, expression flinty.

“Daisy?” Basira’s voice is subdued, but not shocked.

“Don’t start in on me, Basira,” Daisy says bitterly. “You don’t _get_ it.” Her fingers dig into the underside of Cass’ wrist, and Cass twitches in discomfort. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your secrets pulled out like teeth, just because he _asks.”_

“‘He’?” Basira shoots an accusing glance at Jon.

“... _Elias.”_

Everyone’s heads turn towards Sasha. Her gaze is fixed on Daisy, eyes shining behind her glasses with that dawning realization. 

_“He_ told you to kill Jurgen.” Sasha declares it without hesitation, and Jon’s skin prickles to hear that uncanny surety. “Didn’t he?”

Leitner looks back at Daisy, his expression already grimly certain. 

Daisy doesn’t respond, but the clench of her jaw gives her away.

Basira’s gaze hardens. “So a murderer asks you to get the one that got away from him, and you do it?” she asks, disbelieving. “How could you do something so —?”

“Don’t you — don’t you _dare_ look at me like that!” Daisy retorts. “It wasn’t like that; I’m not an idiot, Basira.” Though her words are angry, her expression is wounded. “He _knew_ things about me: things I’ve only ever told you, things I’ve never told _anyone._ And if I didn’t do as he said, he would have told the Chief Inspector about _all_ of it.” Her grip on Cass’ wrist tightens. “That grinning bastard would have taken _everything_ from me; don’t you get it?”

“That’s still too far,” Basira insists, but not as firmly as before, “and you know it.”

“Well, what do _you_ know?” Daisy lashes out. “You’ve _never_ had to do what I’ve done, because _I handled it. Always._ And I was ready to handle _this_ rather than —” Her breath catches, coming out as a frustrated snarl.

Basira doesn’t respond, or meet Daisy’s accusing eyes.

Nora breaks the strained silence. “The death of a single man,” she muses, rolling her cigarette between her slowly steadying fingers. “Was that _really_ all Elias desired of you?”

Cass casts her gaze back to Daisy, eyes still bright even as her face pales in pain. 

Daisy scowls. “... That was what he wanted,” she grudgingly admits. “But I wasn’t about to do it right away.”

“Of course not,” Cass says lightly. “Can’t have a proper hunt without a good, long chase.” As she speaks, she tries once again to pull her wrist free, but Daisy’s grip barely budges. “Out of curiosity, though… how long _did_ it take you?”

Daisy glares. _“What?”_

“How long did it take you?” Cass repeats, a knowing smile spreading across her face. “Before you returned to the A&E where you thought you had your quarry cornered, only to find that he had escaped you?”

Daisy stiffens, her fingers finally slipping from Cass’ wrist. “How —?”

“You weren’t the only one out looking for Jurgen Leitner, Detective Tonner.” Cass rubs at her bruising wrist, wincing slightly. “Except we were looking _out_ for him.”

Leitner frowns suddenly at Nora. “The hospital transfer… that was _you?”_

Nora shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

Jon shoots a puzzled glance at Sasha. Judging by the similarly perplexed expression on her face, she’s wondering the same thing he is: _how had Nora and Cass known that Leitner was alive and in the hospital in the first place?_

“But... if you didn’t know _that,”_ he asks aloud, “then why did you come back to the Institute last week? And not to see me, but _Nora?”_

Cass flashes him a triumphant little smirk — and Jon recognizes the cold, clear timbre of his voice far too late to take his question back.

Daisy narrows her eyes at him, and the goosebumps rippling across Jon’s skin only multiply. “Isn’t it obvious?” she retorts. “This place, this _Institute,_ it’s — it’s unnatural. It’s the goddamn Hydra.” Her voice shakes, and Jon can’t tell if it’s from rage or dread. “You can take its head, and you think it’s dead, but not only can that rotting head _still_ sink its teeth into you, two more take its place.” She shoots a vicious glare at Cass and Nora. “And those two could kill you even quicker than the one already poisoning you — _if_ you aren’t quick enough to burn down what you cut off.”

Jon stares at her, shocked into silence. Even if he could summon any further questions, Daisy’s hateful, hellbent gaze answers every single one of them.

 _Elias may have only wanted Leitner dead, but with Daisy on the hunt, he wouldn’t have been the end of it,_ he realizes, horror washing over him anew. _And Sasha — she would have been just the beginning._

_We’re not Elias: nowhere near him. But in Daisy’s eyes, there’s no difference._

Basira finally speaks, her regained resolve erasing any remnants of hesitancy. “Daisy,” she says, low and firm, _“don’t_ say another word. We might still be able to work something out if you —”

“I’m afraid that possibility is becoming increasingly unlikely, Ms. Hussain,” Nora cuts in, her usual cool composure returning. “As head of this Institute, it is my duty to protect its people from whatever threats they might face — and your partner has proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that she is a dire threat indeed.”

Basira’s mouth tightens.

“That being said, Ms. Hussain,” Nora continues, “if you’re willing to make a case for her and if Detective Tonner is willing to show some reason, _I’m_ willing to entertain the thought of extending… conditional clemency.” She takes a drag of her cigarette, smoke slithering out of her mouth as she smiles. “A contract of employment. With the Institute.”

“What the _hell?”_ Tim protests. “You _can’t_ be —”

Basira frowns. “But the police —”

“If I know Elias,” Nora says dryly, “he asked for an audience with the Chief Inspector the instant after setting Detective Tonner loose on Leitner — which makes you _extremely_ unlikely to be currently employed,” she adds, arching an eyebrow at Daisy. “But even outside the bounds of law enforcement, Hunters have their uses, and one with your background and your skills could be _very_ useful for me indeed.” She glances at Jon. “Particularly considering the larger threat looming on the horizon.”

Jon’s mouth twists. Although he can follow Nora’s logic to its unfortunate conclusion, that hardly means he wants Daisy on their side, even if she _could_ fight the Stranger alongside them. And even if she was bound to the Institute — to its _head —_ the only person truly protected from Daisy would _not_ be one of the people she’d already tried to kill.

 _Nora doesn’t give a damn about protecting us._ The realization shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it sickens Jon regardless. _The only skin she truly cares about saving is her own._

Daisy snorts. “Why would I want _that?”_ she demands scornfully. “If staying alive means working _here,_ for _you —”_

“Daisy —” Basira warns, an odd waver in her voice. “Daisy, _think_ about this —”

 _“No,”_ Daisy insists, hands clenching around the arms of the chair. “Basira, don’t you see it? They — they’re _monsters.”_ She casts a long, loathing look around the office: at Jon, at Martin and Tim, at Sasha and Jane, at Leitner and Cass. “Monsters, every single _fucking_ one of you.”

Martin shrinks from Daisy’s vitriol. Jane’s glare wavers guiltily.

“And _you —”_ Daisy finally stands, meeting Nora’s gaze: animal amber to depthless black. “Don’t you _dare_ make yourself out to be any better,” she spits. “If you’re sitting behind that desk, you’re no better than _Elias.”_

Nora stiffens, her already-pale face utterly incandescent with rage. Then suddenly, her hand snakes out, seizing Daisy by the throat and wreathing her in cigarette smoke.

“Daisy!” Basira lunges forward.

Heart lurching, Jon grabs Basira’s shoulder, struggling to keep her out of the smoke — no, the _fog —_ that’s beginning to swirl around Daisy’s shuddering form, radiating bone-chilling cold throughout the office. And as Nora forces her chin up, Jon sees, for the first time, genuine _fear_ in Daisy’s eyes.

“I _beg,”_ Nora hisses, grip white-knuckled around Daisy’s jaw, “to _differ.”_

And with a roar of roiling, freezing fog, Daisy is swallowed up into thin air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Hospitals, semi-graphic description of burn injury, threat of injury/death, police violence, use of Beholding powers as an interrogation method, minor character death._
> 
> This chapter's title is a line from ["Ozymandias" by Horace Smith](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Ozymandias_\(Smith\)), which he wrote in competition with Percy Bysshe Shelley ([whose poetic take you probably know a _lot_ better](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Ozymandias_\(Shelley\))!) Given that Shelley's poem is the source for the title of [MAG 92: Nothing Beside Remains](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_92:_Nothing_Beside_Remains), I thought it fitting to use Smith's poem to title this alternate take on that episode's events.
> 
> Speaking of poetry: those nineteenth-century poems about vampires that Sasha mentions are [James Clerk Maxwell's "The Vampyre"](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-vampyre/) (shout-out to [cephylopod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cephylopod/pseuds/cephylopod) for taking a crack at guessing which poem I'm using!), [Charles Baudelaire's "Le Vampire,"](https://fleursdumal.org/poem/128) and [Rudyard Kipling's "The Vampire."](https://poets.org/poem/vampire-0) (I had a _lot_ of options re: nineteenth-century poems about vampires to reference in this chapter, but I stuck with the ones whose titles were fairly close to my chosen poem.)


	6. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the re-establishment of safety — or at least the illusion of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell of a November it's been, huh? But it's time for me to post this chapter so I can try to be extra-productive during the upcoming hiatus in *gulp* _two weeks._
> 
> _**Content warnings are in the end notes.** _

“So… she’s gone?” Basira’s voice is steady, but nevertheless subdued. “Daisy’s really gone?”

Jon sighs. It’s the first sound Martin’s heard him make since he compelled Detective Tonner, and his heart seizes up to hear Jon so weary. “I — I think so, yes.”

Basira’s hands clench around her now-cold mug of tea. After Nora had dismissed them all from her office after — after _whatever_ she’d done to Detective Tonner, the first thing Martin had done once the seven of them had trooped back down to the thunderous silence of the Archives was to put on the kettle. Truthfully, none of them, let alone Basira, seem to be in any state to drink said tea, but Martin truly hadn’t known what else to do, or what else he _could_ have done at a time like that.

 _But really: what can_ any _of us do against someone like_ Nora?

“Do you _know?”_ There’s more of an edge to Basira’s questions now. “For certain?”

“I don’t. I _don’t,”_ Jon repeats a bit more defensively, as Basira gives him a doubtful look. “I… don’t know much about the Lonely. I mean, I know a little bit about the entity, as a concept, but as a physical _place —”_ He sighs again, his fingers picking at his shirt collar.

“So she could still be in there?” Basira presses. “And be brought back again?”

Tim’s expression hardens, and Jane’s eyes narrow. Leitner tenses in his seat, while Sasha, standing next to where he’s sitting at her desk, crosses her arms a little tighter over her chest.

“... Maybe?” Jon ventures. “I don’t know how the Lonely — how it —” He swallows, his fingers straying from his collar to rub at his throat nervously. “Again, I don’t _know,_ but... I imagine a person would — would _succumb_ much faster if they were completely lost within the realm itself,” he says. “But in the statements I’ve read, the Lonely doesn’t drown like _that_ outside of itself. It just seeps into this reality, little by little, until that rivulet becomes a river becomes a _flood_ that washes everything out, like — like with Barnabas Bennett or —”

Martin blinks, more surprised by the ease at which the ebb and flow of Jon’s voice had lulled him into a near-trance than by the fact that the tide of Jon’s thoughts had very abruptly retreated. Then he looks over at Jon’s ashen face, and his surprise immediately turns to alarm.

Basira frowns. “Barnabas Bennett?”

“A friend of Jonah Magnus’.” It’s the first that Sasha has spoken since her pronouncement of Detective Tonner’s guilt, and though her voice wavers, it’s with a note of that same strange clarity. “The Lonely had closed its jaws on him long ago, during a Royal Society expedition that left him stranded in the desert between Aswan and Abu Simbel. But it didn’t begin to eat away at him until he made the mistake of crossing a fellow Institute benefactor — and Mordechai Lukas ensured that his was an agonizingly slow consumption.” She falters, eyes oddly bright against her suddenly sickly complexion. “And — and by the time Mordechai wrested the shell of his former self from the Lonely, Barnabas could not help but weep in his final moments to see a face other than his own.”

A pall-like silence falls over the Archives as Martin sees his own aghast expression mirrored on almost every face around him. But as Jon and Sasha meet each other’s gazes, their faces reflect nothing but horrified realization — and profound resignation.

 _So_ this _is what the Eye is._ The unsettling epiphany twists Martin’s stomach, and he’s almost glad he’s barely touched his own tea. _Knowledge where you least expect to find it… or when you least want to see it._

Basira is the first to regain composure. “So. It’s been done before,” she says, putting her mug down on the desk beside her. “So it could be done for Daisy.”

“Just because it _has_ been done doesn’t mean it _should_ be done.” Jane’s voice is harsher than Martin’s ever heard it before.

Basira shoots her a disbelieving look. “So if Daisy’s still alive —”

“Basira,” Jon interjects, face pained, “that’s a _big_ ‘if’ —” 

“— she should just be left there to suffer?” Basira demands, ignoring Jon altogether. “Is _that_ what you’re saying?”

“Yes.” Jane glares at Basira; if looks could kill, Martin has no doubt that Basira would be laid out on the floor by now. “She’s caused enough suffering. And you _know_ it.”

Basira barks out a short, humorless laugh. “And you haven’t?”

Jane recoils, her whole body stiffening in anger. _“What?”_

“The only reason Daisy and I got mixed up with the Institute in the first place is because we were called in to clean up _your_ worm invasion.” Basira leans forward, gaze sharp and steely. “You really want to look at _me,_ instead of Jon or Tim, and tell me that _you_ caused so little harm?”

Martin almost jumps out of his skin as Jane’s chair crashes on the floor behind her with the force of her lunge towards Basira. Tim instantly leaps to Jane’s side to hold her back, but the shock and disgust on his face is in no way directed towards her.

“You want to talk about _harm?”_ Sasha’s voice is quiet, but accusing. Her arm curls around Jane’s shaking shoulders as she glares at Basira. “Then look at _me,_ Basira. Take a look at what _Daisy_ did.”

“Look, I _know_ what she did,” Basira retorts. “And I’m sorry about what happened to you; I really am.” Though she’s looking in Sasha’s direction, Martin can tell that Basira isn’t looking directly at her: much less the bandage around Sasha’s neck. “But Daisy — she only ever hunted _monsters:_ real ones. She should have never gone after you or —” She pauses, her frown returning as she peers at Leitner. “Wait. You said your name… was _Leitner?”_

“Jurgen Leitner, yes,” Leitner says wearily. “I… imagine you may have heard of me, if you deal with these sorts of cases often.”

 _“Dealt,”_ Basira corrects flatly. “Does the title _Introduction to Higher Anatomy_ ring a bell?”

Leitner grimaces. “Several.”

Basira’s expression hardens once again. “Then you probably have a damn good idea of the kind of carnage my Sectioned colleagues stumbled across in Nick Yousuf’s flat a couple of years back.”

Leitner sighs heavily. “Ms. Hussain, I am… very much aware of the horrors I’ve unleashed upon the world. _And,”_ he continues, despite Basira’s deepening look of doubt and disdain, “I assume that Detective Tonner was just as aware of them when she came to kill me.” He swallows, hands tangled and trembling in his lap. “But I do not believe that my erstwhile library is why Elias wanted me dead — and _still_ desires my death.”

Another silence, made even heavier by the uncomfortable reminder of the unseen threat hanging over them. Perhaps even _watching_ them, Martin thinks suddenly, and his skin crawls and prickles as if on cue.

 _If he was able to get under Detective Tonner’s skin_ that _badly, what else is Elias capable of doing?_ he wonders, his worry and fear only growing. _And if he’s capable of leveraging police officers against each other like that —_ Sectioned _officers, no less — why hasn’t he gotten himself released somehow and returned to the Institute?_

 _What does Elias stand to gain just by_ watching _all this play out?_

Basira’s blunt voice dashes all of Martin’s thoughts to bits. “Explain _this,_ then,” she commands Leitner. “If Bouchard wants you dead, why hasn’t his replacement done just that? What’s more, why is Lukas taking steps to _save_ your life?

“Because, unlike many others I could name, I prefer Jurgen Leitner to remain alive.”

Martin’s head jerks up just in time to see Nora sweeping into the Archives, with Cass like a second shadow behind her. In stark contrast to when last he’d seen her, not even a half-hour ago, Nora is once again completely composed and perfectly poised, her countenance eerily serene.

It takes a moment of dumbfounded staring for Martin to finally realize what he finds so unnerving — or really, even _more_ unnerving — about Nora as she stands before them. Though her archly polite manner and aristocratic bearing were clearly the products of an era long since gone by, she had never _looked_ that much older than any of the Archives staff. But now, Nora is radiant with some otherworldly vitality, glowing from lofty head to high-heeled foot like moonlight through fog. Her pale skin is devoid of what few fine lines were there before, and her black eyes are as utterly depthless as the sea under a starless sky.

A chill washes over Martin’s crawling skin, seeping down to stew his bones in a freezing fear. Whatever Nora’s striking rejuvenation means, Martin is almost certain that it is directly connected to Detective Tonner’s death.

Leitner looks similarly surprised by Nora, or at least her unexpected entrance, but he recovers quickly. “And I thank you for it,” he says. “I’m… not entirely certain I deserve to cheat the End yet again, but —” 

“Oh, it’s never a question of what one _deserves,_ Jurgen,” Nora says airily. “It’s about how one plays the cards they are dealt — and despite your losing hand, you have managed to stay in the game for an impressive amount of time.” A ghost of an amused smile flits over her face. “Frankly, I’m hard-pressed to think of another who has remained hidden from the entities, the Eye especially, for as long and as well as you have.”

Cass’ smirk is a little more mocking. _“Or,_ as long as you _had.”_

“And to your point, Ms. Hussain —” Artfully ignoring Cass, Nora turns to address Basira “— I may have succeeded Elias, but I am not him.” Her tone remains light, but her eyes are black and flinty. “His Institute is now _mine,_ and I will run it as _I_ see fit.”

Basira looks as though she has more than a few points of critique to raise about _how,_ exactly, Nora is choosing to run the Institute, but Leitner speaks before she can. “How did you know Elias had tried to kill me?” he asks. “And how did you know I had survived?”

Cass answers in lieu of Nora. “Once the news came down to us that Elias had been deposed, I traveled to the Institute as quickly as I could to assess the nature of the crisis Nora and I would be managing. And oh, if walls could talk — or if bloodstained antique carpets could, for that matter!” she adds with a laugh. “But once I knew you weren’t as dead as the world believed you to be, it was easy enough to keep an eye on you.” She glances at Sasha. “And anyone else looking for you.”

Jane bristles anew, and Martin shoots her a quizzical look. While he can’t say he quite buys Cass’ flippant explanation either, he’s not sure why Jane seems to take such offense to it.

Sasha looks similarly doubtful. “Why didn’t you tell _us_ that you had hidden Jurgen, then?” she asks. For a moment, Martin doesn’t recognize who she’s talking about, but then he realizes that she’s referring to Leitner by his first name for whatever strange reason. “I was searching for him for a _month_ after that Thursday, and you know where he was the whole time?”

“If we’d told you, would you have believed us? Or even heard us out to begin with?” Nora asks archly. “Before you and Jon approached us last week, Sasha, we were under the impression that the Archives were not interested in our assistance.”

“And now that we are?” Sasha presses. _“Would_ you have told us?”

Nora raises her eyebrows. “Of course,” she says, as if any other course of action would be unthinkable. “Jurgen seemed to be recovering well in private care; once he had been discharged from the hospital, I would have informed the Archives immediately.” She sighs. “Given current events, of course —” 

“— you can’t exactly prove that to us now,” Tim finishes caustically. 

“Yes, Elias _has_ rather ruined that opportunity,” Nora says tightly. “Although I must confess, I am also… rather at a loss to explain whatever rationale he may have had for such drastic action.” She looks expectantly at Leitner. “Do _you_ have any insights, Jurgen?”

Leitner coughs. “I… cannot say for sure,” he manages. “But I believe that a critical factor may have been my partnership with Gertrude.” Clearing his throat, he looks directly at Nora and Cass. “Before he killed her, I was helping her with — with her research. Into the Stranger, and the Unknowing.”

Nora and Cass exchange unreadable glances. Looking between them and a stiff and strangely pale Leitner, Martin suddenly remembers what else Gertrude was researching at the time of her death: something that Leitner has very purposefully left out of his explanation. 

_Him at least being_ aware _of Gertrude’s plans to destroy the Institute before the Watcher’s Crown_ has _to be why Elias wants him dead,_ he realizes, a chill snaking down his back. _And if Nora or Cass found out —_

Leitner swallows. “Elias didn’t seem particularly concerned about the Unknowing, but… what of you?” he asks, a bit anxiously. “Are _you_ trying to stop it?”

Nora smiles, though her mouth remains closed. “We are,” she says. “And if you were assisting Gertrude, we could certainly use your expertise in the matter.” Her dark eyes shift to Jon. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Jon looks less than enthusiastic about the possibility of working alongside Leitner. Nevertheless, upon seeing the grave look on Leitner’s face, he grudgingly nods.

“I’m glad you do,” Nora says, clearly satisfied. “In that case, Jurgen —” she turns back to Leitner “— you wouldn’t be opposed to remaining with the Institute a little while longer, would you?” she asks. “Considering the considerable investment I’ve made in your medical treatment, I don’t think a formal contract outlining our arrangement will be necessary — _but,_ for your safety, I must ask that you remain within the Institute’s walls. Should you accept,” she adds, seeing Leitner’s growing wariness, “we can discuss additional accommodations this afternoon.”

Leitner is still hesitating, but his haggard expression makes it plain that he’s painfully aware that he has no better options. And after a moment, he nods as well.

Basira breaks the silence. “So no contract for _him,_ but you’d have Daisy sign one?” she asks pointedly. “What kind of sense does _that_ make?”

“Perfect sense, Ms. Hussain,” Nora says smoothly. “The arrangement between Jurgen and myself is one of mutual assistance: my protection and financial aid in return for his knowledge.” She sighs, as if regretful. “But in the case of Detective Tonner, there could have been no such _quid pro quo:_ only containment. If she _had_ bound herself to the Institute, and, by extension, to its head —” Nora places a hand on her chest, near where Martin assumes her heart could still be “— she would have had to go through _me_ before she could have a chance to kill any other Institute employee.” 

Cass’ mocking smirk widens. “Assuming she didn’t kill herself in the process.”

“Indeed,” Nora agrees, almost amused. “But alas, that offer has since been rescinded.” She studies Basira, that same close-mouthed smile still on her face. “The offer to Detective Tonner, at least.”

“Out with it,” Basira says sharply, crossing her arms. “What do you want from me?”

Much to Martin’s surprise and unease, Nora throws back her head and laughs, her teeth finally flashing. “On the contrary, Ms. Hussain!” she exclaims. “It’s about what _you_ want — and what _I_ can give to you.”

“You’re not as far gone to the Hunt as Alice: not yet.” Cass’ eyes are bright and alert once again. _“But,_ you can stand to look a little longer before you leap any farther.”

Basira’s frown deepens into a glare, but it doesn’t reach her troubled gaze.

“I don’t know how long it’s been since you left the force, Ms. Hussain, but frankly, an early retirement seems to neither suit nor satisfy you,” Nora remarks. “It’s left you restless, searching relentlessly for something stubbornly out of your reach, something that previously only the police could give you: a _purpose.”_ She folds her hands before her: the picture of persuasive poise. “And I can give you a greater one.”

Basira stiffens in her seat, clearly affronted at Nora’s offer. But below her outrage, Martin can see that she’s legitimately stunned. 

_Lost,_ he thinks, although given Nora’s presence, Martin doesn’t like that _that_ word is what first comes to mind. _Then again: without the police, without Detective Tonner… who_ does _Basira have?_

“If the contract is what you’re concerned about, I don’t believe I’ll ask you to sign one,” Nora says lightly. “You seem eminently more reasonable and less openly homicidal than Detective Tonner.”

The mention of Detective Tonner instantly brings Basira back to earth. “And what about _her?”_ she demands. “If I —” She exhales harshly, reining her emotions back in. “For argument’s sake: say I say _yes._ Can you bring back Daisy then?”

“No,” Nora says, without a second of hesitation.

Basira stares at her: incredulous, accusing. “You did it before.”

“At great cost,” Nora says sternly, “both to myself _and_ to her. And at that point, the Lonely was already draining her dry.” She sighs, the iciness of her expression thawing slightly. “Even if I had the strength to remove her again, there would be very little left of your friend: if anything remained at all to remember her by.”

Basira keeps silently staring at Nora, but for the first time today, Martin sees her determination slip into something resembling desperation, even despair.

“I’m sorry I cannot give you a better answer.” Nora’s voice is far softer now, and for a moment, Martin almost believes her sympathy. “But I do hope that you consider my offer, Basira.” She steps forward, placing a hand on Basira’s shoulder. “You’ve suffered a great loss, I know, so take as much time as you need.”

The words have barely left her mouth when Basira abruptly stands, pushing Nora’s hand off her shoulder. “It won’t take long,” she says flatly.

Before Nora can react, Basira walks straight past her and Cass, pushing open the Archives door and striding out without any fanfare.

In the long silence Basira leaves in her wake, Jon is the first to speak. “So… Daisy _is_ dead,” he states quietly.

Cass hums in confirmation. “Most don’t cling to life that long in the Lonely, but the Hunt breeds souls more stubbornly bent on survival than servants of almost any other fear.” She shrugs and smiles blithely. “Still. It wasn’t long before she slipped through her god’s fingers and forgot herself in the fog for good. Before she was nothing more than the husk of the Hunter she once was, wandering without her old aim until her bloody feet faded out from under her.”

Martin suppresses a shiver. Even without an audience in mind — or an unwilling costar — Cass’ monologuing remains no less unsettling.

If the expression on Jon’s face is anything to go by, he feels much the same way. “How is — how did —” He sighs, giving up on rephrasing it as anything other than a question. _“How_ are you able to do that?” he asks Nora.

“The Eye looks with favor on both you and Cassandra, but the gifts of the Archivist are nevertheless unique from those the Reader possesses,” Nora says briskly, crossing to the cluster of desks and settling herself into Basira’s vacated seat. “Likewise, my family’s particular relationship with the Lonely comes with its own peculiar talents.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, the single white lock blinding under the light of the ceiling lamps. “Every Lukas who serves the Lonely is anchored to it in some way — and mine is the heaviest of those still living.”

Jon swallows. “Like... how we’re bound to the Institute.”

“The Institute may be under the auspices of the Eye, but it is not the Eye itself.” Despite her correction, there is no harshness to Nora’s words. “The Lonely is… _inextricable_ from my being. I can call upon it as I wish, but it commands me as well.” She sighs, her dark eyes wavering with some strange, strained emotion. “Removing Detective Tonner from its mists, even for a few minutes, damaged and deprived us both. For the sake of my survival, and for the sake of the Lonely’s satiation, she _had_ to return: dead _or_ alive.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin sees Jon and Sasha exchanging a furtive, foreboding glance. He can’t help but wonder if this has anything to do with their mutual revelation about Barnabas Bennett: seeing as one of Nora’s ancestors had apparently murdered him in much the same way Nora had Detective Tonner.

Martin suddenly hopes that neither Jon nor Sasha ask any further questions on the matter. _If the Eye revealed_ that _to them_ now… _I mean, it_ has _to be a warning of some kind, right?_ He glances nervously back at Nora. _Even if the Eye’s knowledge is more of an unsettling inconvenience…_ this _can’t be a coincidence._

“While we are on the subject of such connections…” Nora swivels her chair to face Sasha. _“Yours_ is quite a close one,” she remarks. “How long have you been aware of it?”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Sasha shrugs stiffly. “I… don’t know for certain,” she says. “I mean, ever since I started working here, I’ve been… a little better at ferreting out information than other people, or — or making jumps I couldn’t really explain, but just _felt_ right.” She sighs. “But... it’s been a _lot_ more noticeable in the past few months.”

“I’ll say,” Cass remarks. “I could tell the Eye was keeping watch over you the moment you and Jon walked into Nora’s office.” She looks at Nora, half-teasing and half-triumphant. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Nora lets out a short, but soft laugh. “You did indeed.”

Sasha frowns at Cass, clearly wary. “What else can you see about me? What —” Her mouth twists. “What are _my_ ‘gifts’?”

For a moment, Martin thinks he sees Cass and Nora share another one of those strange, unreadable glances. But in the blink of an eye, Cass’ attention is back where it had been.

 _“That_ isn’t quite as clear to me,” Cass says after a beat. “You have the tongue of an Archivist; that much is true. But your eyes perceive other secrets and your hands unlock different doors.” She tilts her head, lavender hair falling over one shoulder as she smiles slyly. “Still, even with how far you’ve come already, it can take time for these talents to truly emerge. Practice makes perfect, and all that.”

Sasha raises her eyebrows. “And I suppose you know just how I should _practice,”_ she says dryly.

“Any such practice,” Nora says, cutting in before Cass can respond, “can wait for the time being. I would much rather you rest and recover from this morning’s ordeals first. You as well, Tim,” she adds, looking over at him with no small concern. “I insist that you two take as much time as you need before returning to work.”

“I —” Though surprised, Sasha recovers quickly. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Yep,” Tim says, utterly unenthusiastic. “Thanks.”

Nora just smiles politely. “That being said —” she turns to Jon “— your investigations into the Stranger must continue in whatever capacity they can. Cassandra or I will, of course, get in touch with Mike Crew, but in the meantime, I suggest following up on the other leads you mentioned to me.” She folds her hands over her knees. “Do let us know if you need any assistance.”

Though Jon also seems taken aback, it’s vastly overshadowed by his palpable relief. “Yes. Right. Yes, of course.” Taking a deep breath, he looks over at Cass. “Nora mentioned earlier that you were scouting out the Trophy Room,” he says. “When you were there, did you notice anything —?”

Before Jon can finish his sentence, he’s interrupted by the creaking of door hinges. All eyes, Martin’s included, instantly go to the door to the Archives.

Melanie stops dead in her tracks as the door swings shut behind her. From the way her gaze is traveling around the Archives, becoming more and more bewildered with every new, bizarre detail registered — Tim’s bandaged hand and Sasha’s bandaged neck, Jane’s still-murderous expression, Leitner huddled in one desk chair and Nora lounging in another — Martin can only imagine what she must be thinking.

Jon blinks, his surprise resurfacing. _“Melanie?”_ he manages.

Melanie smiles awkwardly. “... Bad time?”

Much to Jon’s dismay, Cass is the first to pipe up. 

“Not at all, Ms. King!” she exclaims. “Granted, you _did_ miss _most_ of the excitement, but —” Cass lets out a knowing little laugh, tossing her hair over her other shoulder. “Considering your condition, that _may_ have been for the best.”

Melanie’s smile vanishes instantly. _“You_ again?” she asks angrily. “What — _wait.”_ She scowls. “How do you know my —?” She cuts herself off with a huff. “Actually, _don’t_ answer that.”

“Oh, it’s not the answer you’re expecting,” Cass assures her, still unnervingly chipper. “After Jon mentioned who you were, I did a little… _extracurricular_ research, you could call it.” She glances over at Jon, mock-coy. “For shame, Archivist! You didn’t say you were friends with a famous ghost hunter!”

 _“In_ famous _ex-_ ghost hunter, more like,” Melanie says shortly. “If you _really_ did your homework on me, you’d know that _Ghost Hunt UK_ isn’t exactly active anymore.”

Cass shrugs. “Hasn’t stopped you from hunting ghosts on your own.”

Melanie’s scowl deepens.

Cass smiles sweetly. “Sorry,” she says, although she does _not_ sound it to Jon. “Sore subject, I know.”

Melanie snorts. “Bet you fucking do.”

Cass’ smile widens, but the brightness in her eyes abruptly dims as Nora stands and places a warning hand on her shoulder.

Jon hadn’t expected Nora to step in, but he figures it’s about time he did the same. “Melanie, I —” Scrambling out of his seat, he crosses to her and lowers his voice. “I’m sorry about this; I didn’t expect you to come back after —”

Melanie sighs harshly. “Yeah, I didn’t either. But —” She shoots another glare past him at Cass. “Look, I’m getting the sense it’s probably not the _greatest_ time for me to be here, but... can we talk?”

“Yes,” Jon says instantly. “Yes, of course. I —” He glances over his shoulder at Nora. “Are we done here?”

Nora arches an eyebrow at his abruptness. “We can be.” She looks down at Leitner. “Shall we?”

Sasha looks suddenly nervous, but she stays silent. Although Leitner doesn’t look any less apprehensive, he nods and stands. 

Seemingly satisfied, Nora turns and sweeps out of the Archives; after a moment, Leitner follows her, still unsteady on his feet. Cass is the last to leave, sidling by Melanie with that same insincere smile as she goes. 

As soon as the door to the Archives closes behind the three of them, Melanie lets out a frustrated growl. 

Jon glances back at her, concerned. “Are you —?”

“Absolutely.” Melanie stomps towards Jon’s office, letting herself inside and slamming the door behind her without another word.

Jon exhales, his stomach sinking. _She is… absolutely_ not _fine._

“Right, um —” He turns back towards the desks and the others, pausing to try and sweep his thoughts into some semblance of order. _First things first. Melanie’s not going anywhere._ “Sasha, Tim: I _do_ think it would be for the best if you took the rest of the day off, at the _very_ least. Martin, Jane,” he adds, “I have no issue with you doing the same.”

Sasha nods; Tim does as well, albeit a little more reluctantly. Jane just gives a single, jerky shrug.

“What about _you,_ Jon?” Martin asks pointedly, but his worried expression softens his words. “You’ve had as hard a day as any of us; you should think about heading home, too.”

“Um, yes, I’ll —” Jon stammers, backing towards his office door. “I will. Just —”

 _“Jon —”_ Martin starts.

“I _will,”_ Jon repeats, opening the door. “Just — just give me one minute to talk with Melanie and —” Without finishing his sentence, he hastily slips inside his office and shuts the door firmly behind him.

Melanie is slouched on the couch, one leg stiffly sticking out as she rubs at her knee. Once again, her frustration has vanished as quickly as it had come on, but an equally intense desperation has taken its place.

Jon lets his hand slip off the doorknob as he turns to her. “How… is your leg?” he ventures. 

Melanie sighs. “Hurts,” she says heavily. “Not always, but when it _does —”_ She groans, collapsing back into the couch. “And there’s nothing I can _do_ about it, you know? I can put my feet up, or ice my knee, or take painkillers, but none of those do a damn thing against — against _ghost_ bullets.”

Jon swallows. “I’m sorry.” He sits down next to her, but is still careful to give her space on the couch. “I wish there was a way I could help, but —”

“Actually, you… kind of can.” Melanie pushes herself upright. “Are my library credentials still good?”

Jon blinks. “… They should be,” he says after a moment. “I’d have to check with Martin, but I think our guest accounts only expire after a year, so…” He trails off, peering at her. “Why do you ask?”

Melanie’s gaze falls away from his. Struck by her uncharacteristic hesitation, Jon just stays quiet and gives her time to regain her nerve.

“I… want to keep doing research,” Melanie finally says. “Not just on — on _war ghosts,_ but on these entities, or just the Slaughter, or — anything that might help me figure _this_ out.” She taps at her knee, wincing even at the light contact. “Learn how my mark works, how I might get rid of it — or _manage_ it, at least.” Her face twists a little more. “I just — I can’t risk not knowing what I’m up against, and what it might do to me, you know? If this thing makes me hurt someone, if I hurt _Georgie,_ I couldn’t —”

“Of course,” Jon says softly. “Of course.”

Melanie nods, but her expression is still pained. “She — I mean, I _know_ Georgie can’t feel fear, but I honestly think she might have been a little afraid for me, if I came back to the Institute,” she admits. “This _place_ just — _”_

Jon frowns. “Sorry, _what?”_ he asks, baffled. “What do you mean, ‘Georgie can’t feel fear’?”

Melanie finally looks back at him, her eyebrows raised. “Did she not tell you?”

Jon instantly puts the pieces together, and _almost_ instantly feels incredibly foolish for not picking up on it earlier. “… She was going to,” he says slowly. “But I — I told her if she was to tell anyone, it should be you. At least _then,_ it might help someone to hear it.” He sighs. “If she’d told _me —”_

“Right,” Melanie says. “Your whole... Archivist thing.”

“Mmh.” Jon fidgets with his shirtsleeve. 

There’s another moment of silence between them. For a moment, Jon’s tempted to ask Melanie what Georgie’s story was, but then he feels the prickle of static dancing in the still air and yanks his shirtsleeve a little farther down over his wrist.

“Is… everything okay here?” Melanie finally asks. “Because it sure as hell did _not_ seem like it when I walked in just now.”

Jon surprises himself with the strangled laugh that squirms out of his throat. “Just — just another day at the office, I suppose.”

Melanie stares at him incredulously. “I think you and I have _very_ different definitions of what constitutes a normal workday.”

“They can’t be _that_ far removed from each other,” Jon says. He smiles weakly. “After all, _you_ used to run a ghost hunting show.”

Melanie rolls her eyes. “… Touché.”

Jon feels his smile grow a little surer. “On YouTube.”

“Oh, piss _off,”_ Melanie says, but she’s grinning a little as she says it: the first smile Jon has seen from her in months. _“Ghost Hunt UK_ was _way_ more legitimate than the Magnus Institute has _ever_ been, and you know it!”

“You’re… not wrong,” Jon concedes, laughing a little. “And yet, you _still_ came to consult _our_ library.”

Melanie exhales heavily, her grin fading. “… Yep.”

Jon shrinks in his seat a little, suddenly all too aware of how flat his awkward joke had fallen. _She’s here for my help. Again,_ he thinks guiltily. _And she deserves far better than the scorn I gave her the first time._

“If… on the off-chance Diana _does_ give you any trouble about your account, don’t hesitate to call me, or have her call me,” Jon says stiltedly. He pauses, then continues, still slightly nervous. “And — and if you can’t find what you’re looking for, you could always recruit Martin to assist you. He used to work there, so he knows his way around the place. Plus,” he adds, well aware he’s rambling by now, “you’re more than welcome to dig through the Archives as well; Jane more or less reorganized all of our files, so she can help you out there.”

Melanie is still staring at him, but her downcast expression is slowly, tentatively beginning to lift. “Thanks, Jon,” she says quietly. “I mean it.”

After a moment, Jon smiles back.

Melanie chews on her lip. “Speaking of…” she starts. “Could I — do you think I could talk to Jane? Just in general? I remember you saying she used to be —”

“Um…” Jon sighs. “You’d have to ask her,” he says slowly. “To be honest, we haven’t discussed much of the specifics of her — her _experience_ beyond her initial statement, and _now —”_

He’s seen Jane angry before; once upon a time, he’d been the target of her rage more often than not. But _this_ time, when Jane had hurled censure, and almost herself, at Basira, Jon had been struck to the core by how galvanized _he’d_ been by _her_ fury: how ironclad he had been in his conviction that Jane was _right_ and utterly righteous in her wrath.

He’d witnessed the Hive in all its honeyed horror, and experienced its insidiousness firsthand: when its stomach-churning song wormed into his ears and under his skin, when his own sharp voice drowned out its shrieking chorus for good. 

But out of all the monsters he’s seen today, not a single one of them has been Jane Prentiss.

“... You can certainly ask,” Jon finally says. “But I don’t know what her answer will be.”

Jane is still angry.

Admittedly, it hardly takes any supernatural powers of perception to see _that._ If there’s one thing that Tim has come to realize about Jane after months of working together, it’s that she wears her heart on her sleeve while acting as though no one can see the blood running down her wrist. And even though she readily grabs her jacket and her bag as he and Sasha also prepare to leave the Institute — at least for an afternoon, if not the following days as well — Jane’s hands are nevertheless white-knuckled and shaking. 

That being said, this Jane is nowhere near the skulking, sullen woman of earlier months, who refused to speak to almost anyone and was unfailingly hostile when she _did._ This Jane, as wounded and withdrawn as she is, is still willing to engage: to insist alongside Sasha that he come with _them_ to their flat instead of heading home alone — to offer a small smile and a few short, but sympathetic words to a brave-faced, but still shaken Rosie as the three of them headed out together — to glare daggers at the cab driver who had occasionally seemed more focused on Tim’s and Sasha’s injuries than the road ahead.

But now that the three of them are safely in Sasha and Jane’s flat, Tim can feel himself beginning to unravel again — and judging from the wan cast to Sasha’s face and the bitter set of Jane’s jaw, he’s not alone in his exhaustion. Still, Sasha has enough self-possession left to quietly excuse herself and retreat to the bathroom to change the bandage on her neck, and Jane takes that as her cue to silently retrieve a first aid kit from the kitchen and sit Tim down on the other side of the table.

Tim does his best to not look at his hand as Jane unwraps this morning’s bandages, but as the blistering burns are slowly exposed to air, he can’t help but wince as his skin is set aflame all over again. Even so, he tries to remain still as Jane dabs antibiotic ointment on the burns, her touch light and careful even as her fierce glower etches itself deeper and deeper into her face.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and Tim fishes it out with his free hand. It’s a text from Martin: _finally got jon out of the archives. i’m heading with him to his place for the time being._

Before Tim can tap out a response, there’s another: _did you three make it to sasha’s/jane’s?_

Tim sends the smiley face wearing sunglasses and the thumbs-up together as confirmation, then puts away his phone. “Jon and Martin just left the Institute,” he says idly, looking over before his brain could register _why_ he hadn’t been doing that before.

Jane doesn’t seem to hear him, her seething glare fixed on the length of fresh gauze she’s sawing away at.

Tim hastily lifts his gaze, but the exposed skin of his hand, scarlet and screaming, is already seared on his vision. He tries to focus on anything else: the afternoon sun streaking across the kitchen table covered in brown-spotted bandages, the colorful jumble of plastic tubes and cardboard boxes spilling out of the first aid kit, Jane’s unruly curls tumbling over her face in a black curtain. But the only thing more arresting than the stabbing pain of his scorched hand is the cloud of barely-concealed anger roiling around Jane.

Tim decides to try and break the tension the best way he knows how. 

“Serious question.” He looks back at Jane while doing his best to keep his gaze above his hand. “How many kittens do you think I could hold, _all_ at once?”

Jane’s head snaps up, her eyes narrowed incredulously. _“What?”_

“Kittens,” Tim repeats matter-of-factly. “How many do you think I could hold, like, in my arms at the same time?” He pauses, as if giving it careful consideration. “Realistically, I think it would be two or three maximum, because cats _are_ kind of squirmy when they’re little, but I kind of want to say six and see if anyone calls my bluff.”

Jane’s frown deepens, but unlike before, she seems to be more angry about the fact that she can’t figure out if Tim’s being serious or not.

“But they’d have to be kind of an arse to, right?” Tim adds with a chuckle. “I mean, they would have already demonstrated that by asking me how I got this scar, but…” He shakes his head, sighing dramatically. “Listening to my incredibly heroic and heartwarming story of saving a litter of newborn kittens from a burning building, and _then_ having the _audacity_ to question the number of kittens I totally pulled from the flaming wreckage at the expense of my own hand?” He shrugs. “I think at that point, I would be _well_ within my rights as a bullshit artist to add a few extra kittens into the mix.”

Jane stares at him for a long time before her mouth finally twists into something almost resembling a smile. Still, the brooding gleam in her eyes and the bristling tension in her shoulders remain.

Tim exhales ruefully. _Well. Can’t say I didn’t try._

“Jane,” he says, more straightforward now, “this isn’t something _anyone_ in the Archives should be beating themself up over.” He attempts to wiggle his singed fingers, but stops abruptly once his muscles seize up again. “Granted, it was _my_ bad idea, but I think Jude Perry can take the lion’s share of the blame, here.”

Jane’s gaze flickers from his face to his arm and back again. “What about the others?” she asks bitterly.

“Look, Basira doesn’t know a damn thing about you,” Tim retorts, trying to keep his voice steady as his own outrage at Basira’s accusations resurfaces once again. “Just because she and that serial killer partner of hers were the first Sectioned officers down in the tunnels or whatever _doesn’t_ mean she sees the full picture. Especially not everything that came after she left.”

“She’s seen enough.” Jane starts winding the gauze around Tim’s hand, her fingers shaking and fumbling with the thin material. “And what she saw wasn’t wrong.”

Tim sighs. “Jane —” 

Jane’s gaze snaps back to him. “Do you know why I’ve never asked for forgiveness?” she demands hoarsely. “From you, or from Jon, let alone from Martin? Or even _apologized?”_ Her voice is beginning to crack, but she keeps pushing on. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. But I also know it won’t change _anything.”_ Her eyes are dark and despairing in her pale, sunken face. “The words might soothe the surface wounds, but… they can’t erase the deeper scars.”

Tim stares back at her in disbelief. He almost wants to tell her she’s wrong, but he knows in his gut that _that_ isn’t right. As much as he’s become accustomed to the sight of his myriad silver scars — scattering like buckshot over the side of his face and neck, burrowing deep into the bruised tissue of his arm — the very act of seeing them never fails to remind him of that fateful day. And as much as he’s learned to laugh off or turn away everyone else’s stares, every single look askance nevertheless kicks the carefully-placed bricks of his slowly-rebuilt self-esteem a little further out of place.

“And you know what’s _worse?”_ Jane asks wretchedly. “You’re the only people I even _have_ that option for. Because you’re the only other people to survive the Hive. Even _Sasha —”_ Her voice finally breaks, tears welling up in her eyes. “We only became close in the first place because she wasn’t struggling with that trauma to the extent that you and Jon and Martin were. But she was _still_ almost infested because of _me.”_ She sniffs, letting go of the gauze to swipe at her damp face. “Because of _my_ victim.”

“Because of the _Hive’s_ victim,” Tim says firmly. _“Not_ Jane Prentiss’.”

“There isn’t as much of a difference as you think there is.” The desperation in Jane’s voice has turned to condemnation. “My muscles might have been moved by thousands of wills other than my own, but it was still _my_ _body.”_ Her shoulders collapse, and she suddenly looks impossibly, hopelessly weary. “Even the most monstrous of avatars isn’t all monster. Without our humanity — without our _fear —_ we can never fully satisfy what we serve.”

Tim swallows. “Feed your god before it feeds on you?” he asks darkly, unable to keep the revulsion at the remembrance of those scornful words out of his voice. 

“... Essentially.” Jane peers at him. “Did —?”

“Yeah, that’s _exactly_ what Jude Perry told Jon today,” Tim says bleakly. “Honestly, I thought that was more applicable to an entity like the Desolation than the Eye, but —”

“— it’s not,” Jane says flatly. “The means might differ, but the end is always the same.”

Tim sighs. “I guess,” he admits. “It’s just… strange to think about someone like _Jude_ being scared of anything. Or Nora, or Cass, or Elias, or — or _any_ of them.”

“We’re all afraid of something,” Jane says simply. “It’s just that some people would rather make other people feel afraid rather than feel that fear themselves.”

Tim turns that disquieting thought over in his head for a long time. He knows what fear is; he knows how it has shadowed his steps from the Covent Garden Theatre all the way to the Magnus Institute. He knows all too well how _afraid_ he’s been since then of seeing anyone else he loves pinned under the scorching spotlight that had once skewered Danny. And just today — with Jon, with Sasha — he’d come far too close to seeing his worst fear come back to life.

Has he always been like this? Has he always been waiting in the wings, watching every awful scene play out before him as he waited with bated breath for an entrance — an interruption, a chance to change the ordained outcome — that had never been written in the script to start with?

And what would happen to him if he stepped onto the stage anyway?

Tim knows, his certainty gripping him as fiercely as his fear, that he would never play that dread part. But he also knows he is in dire peril of being cast.

“For what it’s worth... I know that Jon and Sasha aren’t those kinds of people,” Jane says softly. “None of you are.” She picks up the gauze and continues to bandage his hand, but her gaze is still melancholy. “... Then again, I didn’t think _I_ was, either.”

There’s a scar on her neck.

Sasha frowns into the bathroom mirror, her fingers tentatively tracing the line cut by Detective Tonner’s knife. It hadn’t been deep to begin with; it’s the only reason Martin was able to patch it up with the overused Archives first aid kit, let alone the only reason she’s still alive. But when she’d peeled Martin’s bandage off, she’d still expected to see scabbing, maybe even some bleeding: _not_ a thin, white slash of raised tissue. 

Sasha stares at her reflection for what seems like an eternity. Even without this new scar, she looks so _different_ to herself, or who she believed herself to be. Although every inch of her seems utterly unsettled and shaken, the eyes that meet her gaze from behind her smudged glasses are strangely steady and sure, even challenging.

There’s a gleam in them that Sasha recognizes: but not from her own eyes.

Abruptly turning her attention from the mirror, Sasha sweeps the remnants of the bandage off the counter and into the wastebasket. Instinctively, she reaches down towards the cabinet below the sink to grab the rubbing alcohol and some cotton rounds — just to be on the safe side — but then her eyes follow her hands down to the doorknob she’s about to grasp.

One cabinet door is eggshell white, as expected. But the other is the violently bright yellow of a cracked yolk.

Mouth flattening, Sasha straightens up and steps away from the sink. “I know you’re there,” she says heavily.

After a beat, the wrong-colored cabinet door creaks open.

A cascade of blond curls flood out from under the sink and over the bathroom rug, with Michael’s round, grinning face bobbing in the center of the whirlpool. “That _is_ the idea,” he says smugly.

Sighing, Sasha rubs at her temples; a brutal headache has already been building behind her eyes for the better part of the afternoon, and Michael certainly isn’t helping to calm it. _“Why_ are you in my flat?”

“Can one _not_ drop in on a dear friend?” Michael wheedles, almost pouting. His kaleidoscopic eyes shift to the scar on Sasha’s neck and stay there, even as his form continues to ooze across the bathroom rug and over the tile floor. “Especially one so recently in distress?”

“Well, if _that’s_ the case,” Sasha says dryly, “you and your door could have shown up a _lot_ earlier.”

Michael stills, staring at her with dizzyingly bright, unblinking eyes. Then all of a sudden, a single boneless arm shoots out of the cabinet, the spindly hand at the end of the limb hitting the wall opposite the sink with a wet, heavy _smack._

Sasha starts backwards at the unexpected, unsettling movement, her calves hitting the rim of the tub and almost sending her tumbling into the shower. Grabbing blindly at the towel rack, she rights herself in time to see Michael’s other hand latch onto the doorframe of the linen closet with the same stomach-churning sound. With a hollow rattling sound like dice clattering in a cup, Michael’s spindly fingers scuttle up the bathroom wall and onto the ceiling, carrying the rest of Michael up with them. 

Michael’s uncrumpled body rights itself into utterly wrong angles as he looms over Sasha, his head dangling down by his limp neck like a lightbulb swaying on a chain. “I have saved your life three times already, Sasha James,” he says, his voice terrifyingly soft. “Your friend though I am, I would not wish to see me a fourth time if I were you.”

Sasha swallows, suddenly regretting her rash words in the wake of Michael’s warning — _or threat,_ she thinks darkly. _But knowing what I actually_ know _of Michael, it’s probably a little of both._

“Don’t get me wrong,” she says carefully. “I _am_ grateful for all those other times. I just —” Letting go of the towel rack, Sasha straightens up, craning her head to meet Michael’s uncanny gaze. “I just haven’t been able to thank you before now. I mean, I haven’t seen you since February and...” She trails off, unable to find a suitable end for her sentence. _The table being destroyed and the Not-Them being freed? Jurgen coming out of hiding? Elias trying to kill me?_

 _Finding out that Michael was once one of Gertrude’s assistants?_ The revulsion knotting her insides at the sight of Michael’s eye-wateringly distorted form is suddenly shot through with sympathy as Sasha remembers _that_ revelation. _That she — she_ used _him somehow to stop the Spiral’s ritual?_

Michael is watching her keenly, his pupils dilating and constricting at their leisure. His limbs are beginning to snap back into some semblance of place, but his head still hangs far too close to hers for comfort.

Sasha forces herself to refocus. Michael was clearly already in a dangerously capricious mood; any questions she has will hardly help matters. “Why is that?” she asks. “Why I haven’t seen you since that night, I mean.”

With a sharp _twang,_ Michael’s neck abruptly snaps back against his shoulders as the rest of him finally shrinks and settles into something resembling a human form. “Your options for exits,” he says archly, “are... less forthcoming than they once were.”

“Meaning...” Sasha pauses, waiting for Michael to finish.

Michael doesn’t. In the sudden silence, Sasha faintly hears Tim’s and Jane’s voices from elsewhere in the flat and fervently hopes that no one on either side of the bathroom door thinks to open it.

“You told me once,” Michael muses, the sharp tips of his long fingers clicking against one another as he folds his hands together, “that your Archivist is not what the Archivist has been. And that may still be so.” He tilts his head, neck once again winding around in an unnatural curve. “But what are _you,_ Sasha James?”

Sasha’s twisting gut suddenly hollows out as she realizes _exactly_ what he’s getting at. “... I don’t know,” she mumbles.

Michael tuts, clearly disappointed with her unconvincing lie. “Of _course_ you do.”

“Of _course_ I _know,”_ Sasha retorts, a little sharper now. “I just —”

“— do not like to believe that _that_ is what you are becoming,” Michael finishes, almost triumphant despite the dark gleam in his whorling eyes. “A ceaseless watcher of woe. An all-knowing acolyte of the awful Eye.”

“I said, I _know,”_ Sasha snaps. “I know it’s happening; I’m not denying _that._ But... ever since February, it’s been getting so much stronger, and I don’t know _why,_ or how I can —” She exhales shakily, raking her hands back through her hair as she stares up at Michael, hating how helpless she suddenly feels. “I know I can’t _really_ stop it. But… can I stave it off, somehow?”

For the first time since he made his entrance, a smile creeps over Michael’s face. “Do you _want_ to starve?” he asks, gentle and goading all at once. “Could you ever hope to content yourself with scraps of ignorance?”

Sasha instantly opens her mouth to say _yes,_ but that simple word sticks in her throat, stabbing and choking. As much as she wants to swear that she could, she _knows,_ certainty sweeping over her skin in a shivering wave of static, that if it came down to it — that _when_ her life _has_ depended on it — she couldn’t.

She doesn’t know when her last chance to leave that door alone was. But after today, there’s no turning back from the threshold she’s crossed.

Michael is still smiling, but there is a strange contrition to his expression now. “I did not know I had been consumed until I was already chewed and stewing in the belly of the beast,” he says, his voice still hair-raisingly soft. “But you are still sticking in the teeth, Sasha James.” His teeth flash in sharp, spiraling fractals as his smile widens, shifting and snaking into something infinitely less sorry. “Do not let yourself be swallowed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Heavy discussion of past trauma and near-death experiences, semi-graphic description of burn injury, Distortion-typical body horror._
> 
> Barnabas Bennett's statement is [MAG 92: Nothing Beside Remains](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_92:_Nothing_Beside_Remains) (which is also the source for my reference to the Section 31 case involving _Introduction to Higher Anatomy._ "Yousef" is from the script, but "Nick" was inspired by _[The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Anatomy_Lesson_of_Dr._Nicolaes_Tulp)_[ by Rembrandt](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Anatomy_Lesson_of_Dr._Nicolaes_Tulp).)
> 
> On a lighter note, have some excellently atmospheric fanart of [Nora](https://numinousnic.tumblr.com/post/633517839559622656/awesomelyanon-the-second-of-the-giveaway), drawn by [@awesomelyanon](https://awesomelyanon.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr (thank you again, Meares!)


	7. From Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regarding a visitor to the Magnus Institute, and a break-in at the Trophy Room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all — long time, no see! Apologies for another two-and-a-half month-long gap between chapters, but 1) the holidays (as well as _actual, substantial time off from work!)_ happened, and 2) I spent those weird holiday months working on other _TMA_ -related fic projects! In December, I contributed [a statement fic featuring Nora](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27890305) to the [Avatar of Fear Zine](https://avataroffearzine.tumblr.com/), and in January, I wrote [a series of drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28539792/chapters/69938727) for the inaugural [Bi Jon Month](https://jonsimsbipride.tumblr.com/post/637715034898923520/id-a-promo-banner-of-jonathan-sims-from-the) hosted by [@jonsimsbipride](https://jonsimsbipride.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Both were a ton of fun to work on, and I highly recommend checking them out (as well as the whole zine and the other content produced for Bi Jon Month!)
> 
> In non- _TMA_ fic writing news: I've also started writing [an epistolary fic based on the fantasy Western homebrew DnD campaign I'm currently playing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27353245)! So I encourage you to check that out as well, along with [the other DnD one-shots I've written](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971994).
> 
> But I've left you hanging long enough! Time to resolve a cliffhanger and raise the curtain...
> 
>  **Recommended Listening:** ["Monsters" by Hurricane Bells](https://youtu.be/QBIYMFycWcY)
> 
> _**Content warnings are in the end notes.** _

Just before noon on Thursday, the uneasy calm of the Archives is upended by an unfortunately familiar intruder.

“Martin!” Cass materializes in the doorway to the break room, nearly making Martin jump out of his skin.  _ “Just  _ who I was hoping to see!  _ And,”  _ she adds, seeing the electric kettle that he’s filling, “doing exactly what I’m here about!”

Frowning in suspicion, Martin turns off the kitchenette sink. “... Tea?”

“Tea!” Cass cheerfully confirms. “I’ve been asking around, you see, and the consensus seems to be that  _ you  _ brew the best cup of tea in the Institute.”

Martin’s almost pleased to hear that before he remembers who the compliment is coming from. “Well, that’s…  _ nice, _ I  _ suppose,” _ he says tightly, “but why do  _ you _ need tea?”

“Oh, it’s not  _ me  _ the tea is for,” Cass says. “It’s for Mike.”

Martin blinks.  _ “Mike?  _ Mike  _ Crew?” _

“The same.” Cass leans against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. “It was hard enough persuading him to come to the Institute in person, so Nora and I figured that a nice cup of tea might put him a bit more at ease.” She shrugs and smiles. “Roll out the welcome mat, you know?”

Martin narrows his eyes. “How come this is the first time I’m hearing about this?” he asks. “And — I mean, shouldn’t  _ Jon _ know?”

“We-ell,” Cass says, rolling her eyes, “I  _ was  _ going to knock on the Archivist’s door and let him know, but it seems like he’s a _ bit  _ preoccupied at the moment. Statements, I’d imagine.” Her smile brightens even further.  _ “But,  _ here _ you  _ are!”

“And here  _ you  _ are,” Martin says flatly. He lifts the filled kettle out of the sink; as he turns, he notices that Cass is still lingering just outside the break room and pauses. “… Do I have to invite you in, or  _ what?” _

Cass laughs. “I’m no vampire,” she says teasingly. “And even if I was,  _ real  _ vampires don’t play by any rules.” She steps inside, casting a glance back over her shoulder. “Awfully quiet down here today, isn’t it?” she comments. “Are Sasha and Tim still out?”

“Jane, too.” Slotting the kettle onto its base, Martin plugs the whole apparatus in and leans back against the counter. “Leitner’s around here... somewhere? I think he’s, well,  _ lurking  _ in the secure file storage room until Facilities brings another desk and chair down tomorrow morning.”

Cass wrinkles her nose. “Is he  _ sleeping  _ in there?”

“I mean, we have a cot set up for a reason,” Martin says. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Oh.” Cass raises her eyebrows a tad suggestively.  _ “Fun.” _

“Oh, uh… no.  _ Not  _ ‘fun’; not like that at  _ all.”  _ Martin grimaces, but his face is still uncomfortably warm.  _ “... Why  _ would you even think that?”

Cass shrugs blithely. “It’s the least depressing possibility.” Swinging her hands behind her back, she takes another casual step into the break room. “Still, I suppose that’s better than nothing. Who knows how long it’ll take to renovate that room down by Artifact Storage into something less —” she makes a face  _ “— oppressive?” _

Martin realizes then, his stomach taking a queasy turn, that Cass is talking about Jane’s old cell. He’d only seen it the one time, when helping Sasha and the others pack up what little Jane had in there, but the sterile white walls and the utilitarian metal bed frame had been so sickeningly familiar, he’d been tempted to retreat back to the atrium like Jane. 

_ She isn’t  _ staying _ here,  _ he kept telling himself as he folded shirts and fit them into the suitcase Sasha had brought.  _ No one will ever stay in here again, and no one  _ should.

“... Probably a while,” he finally says. Glancing to his side, Martin then realizes he hasn’t turned the kettle on and flips the switch. 

Cass’ eyebrows rise a little higher, but she doesn’t say anything.

Martin speaks before she can. “How many cups?” He fully turns and opens up the cabinet over the counter, reaching up towards the only shelf not labeled with one of the Archives staff’s names. “Or is the tea  _ just  _ for Mike?”

“Let’s see…” Cass raises one hand to make a silent tally in the air as she thinks. “One for Mike, one for Nora — and one for you, I suppose, if  _ that’s  _ why you were making tea in the first place.” She shrugs again. “I’m not one for tea myself; coffee’s more my speed.”

Martin cranes his head over his shoulder to squint at her. “Is… that a Beholding thing?” he asks. “I mean, Jon’s not much of a tea drinker either, aside from… well, when  _ I  _ make tea, but —”

“Oh, it has nothing to do with the Beholding,” Cass says. “It’s only a personal preference.” She sighs, mock-rueful. “You can take the American across the pond, but you can’t make her drink tea.”

Martin blinks, astounded. “Wait, you’re…  _ American?” _

Cass throws back her head and laughs. “Was it the accent that threw you? Don’t feel too bad,” she adds before Martin can muster any response. “I’ve lived here long enough that I don’t sound  _ too  _ Yankee-ish anymore.” She grins. “Besides, you’ve heard how Nora speaks. After how long I’ve been in her company, I’m pretty sure I _ dream _ in RP now.”

“How long  _ has  _ that been?” Martin asks, regaining a little composure.

Cass’ grin slips slightly. “Oh, I… I haven’t been back to the States in at  _ least _ a decade: give or take a few years,” she says. Her tone is still light, but her gaze is distant. “Sometimes seems like ages ago, though.”

Sensing his cue to drop the conversation, Martin turns back to the cabinet and takes down three of the mugs left unclaimed by the Archives staff, setting them on the counter beside the heating kettle. Somewhere in the recesses of his memory, he hears Sasha mentioning — back when the two of them were trying to track down that book Nora had bought at auction — that Leitner had a theory that Cass could have been affiliated with another Eye-aligned institution. And there  _ was  _ at least one such place in the United States that he knew of; back when he still worked in the Institute’s library, Martin recalls processing  _ quite  _ a few interlibrary loans for the Usher Foundation, as well as issuing them a probably equal amount of overdue notices.

_ But if that’s the case, what’s Cass doing over here?  _ he wonders.  _ And what  _ exactly  _ is the connection between her and Nora? _

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin sees Cass wander over to the bulletin board on the wall adjacent to the door. While the board has a few outdated workplace safety posters and relevant phone numbers tacked up on it, much of the board is taken up with photographs of the Archives staff: a few clearly taken in the Archives itself, but far more taken on nights out at their usual pub. Most of them had been taken by Martin; it was, after all, his camera, and this wall of photographs had been his idea in the first place.

He’d thought of it at the end of that Thursday night in February, when the five of them were sheltering in what was then just Sasha’s flat. Maybe it hadn’t been the  _ best _ time to bring it up, having just barely escaped the Not-Them themselves, but by that same token, Martin thought it at least situationally appropriate to remind the others that, however the Not-Them’s identity-stealing power worked, it didn’t work on analog technology. Technology like the Archives’ tape recorders, yes, but also, as they’d learned from the statements they’d read to study their foe, Polaroids.

_ (And, well,  _ I _ have an instant camera!  _ Martin had barrelled on, determined to get through his explanation before anyone could shoot it down.  _ I haven’t used it in a while because it was tricky to find the proper film, but now that ‘vintage’ things are making a comeback —  _ Flinging his arms wide in an over-emphatic shrug, he’d paused for breath; surprisingly, no one cut him off.  _ Anyway, we get film and we take photographs of ourselves. Maybe other people in the Institute, but definitely us. That way —  _

_ (— we remember each other’s faces,  _ Sasha had finished quietly.  _ If we’re going to try to stop the Unknowing, the Stranger  _ will _ come after us again.  _ Though her own face still looked wan, there was a spark of grim determination in her eyes.  _ And when it does... we’ll see right through its disguises.) _

Cass’ roving gaze settles on one photograph in particular: one of the few that Martin features in. He’s crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with Jon in that back booth that the Archives staff always claimed during these nights out, and his head is thrown back in uproarious laughter, his cheeks painted with a deep flush: either from the warmth of the pub or from the half-drained pint of cider on the table before him. Jon, one elbow propped on the table, is gazing at him in rapt attention, with a startlingly soft smile on his face that makes Martin smile a little now to see it.

“Aww.” Cass casts a teasing look over her shoulder, her mouth quirking up at the corners. “You and the Archivist make  _ such  _ an adorable pair.” She pauses. “Wait,  _ are  _ you —?”

Martin feels the smile vanish from his face.  _ “Jon  _ and I  _ are  _ together, yes,” he says archly. “Not that it’s any of  _ your  _ business.”

Even as he says it, the phrasing of it doesn’t sound quite right to him. Granted, he and Jon  _ have  _ consistently been going out on dates for the past few months, but as far as Martin can determine, that just means they’re  _ dating:  _ not necessarily that they’re in a  _ relationship.  _ Then again, Jon’s the first person Martin’s dated since he was transferred down to the Archives, and Martin’s fairly sure that the same holds true for Jon —  _ so does  _ that  _ automatically place us in a relationship?  _ Martin wonders. 

_ Or am I just overthinking this because Cass asked? _

As if she could hear her name in his thoughts, Cass’ smile shifts into a smirk. “No need to get so huffy. I’m only trying to make conversation.” She pivots on her heel away from the bulletin board. “Congratulations, though. How’s  _ that _ working out for you?”

Martin bristles. “Come again?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“I’m not trying to be mean; I’m just wondering,” Cass says. “I mean,  _ he’s _ the Archivist, and  _ you’re…”  _ Her voice trails off and she pointedly looks him up and down. Despite the fact that he’s taller and a good deal broader than her, Martin suddenly feels very small — no,  _ insignificant. _

Then Cass laughs, and Martin knows he’s not imagining the mocking note in it this time around. “Well,” she says, smirk widening. “You’re  _ you!” _

_ That  _ does it. “What, you’re saying I’m…  _ not good enough  _ for him, or something?” Martin snaps. “Or — or avatar-y enough to merit the attention of the all-powerful  _ Archivist?” _

Cass rolls her eyes and holds up her hands, cutting him off. “You’re taking this  _ far  _ too personally, Martin,” she says. “I’m sure you’re… very nice and that anyone would be lucky to have you as a boyfriend and —” she flicks her hands flippantly “— so on and so forth.  _ But —”  _ now her hands drop “— that doesn’t change the fundamental fact that your relationship with the Archivist has a profound power imbalance.” Cass looks Martin dead in the eye, all previous amusement erased from her expression. “Your proximity to the Archivist has already made you a target of the enemies of the Eye. And as the Archivist’s power grows, so does your own risk of falling into his line of sight: perhaps fatally so.”

Martin swallows, a chill running over his skin despite himself. “… Jon would never hurt me.” His voice is sure, but still too quiet for his liking. “Not like that.” 

Cass’ gaze doesn’t falter. “He won’t be able to help it.”

Martin wants to keep protesting: to tell Cass to her smugly certain face that however much she thinks she knows, she’s wrong about Jon and about them. But the cold brightness of Cass’ blue eyes freezes his words in his lungs, demolishing all his points and proofs before he can even speak them into being.

Behind him, the kettle beeps. Breaking eye contact, Martin abruptly turns around to take the kettle off. He pours an even amount of water into each mug, then grabs three teabags (at this point, he doesn’t look too hard at  _ what  _ they are: only whether or not they’re the same) from the plastic caddy next to the kettle and drops them into the mugs one by one to steep.

He’s letting the last teabag fall into the third mug — white and plain save for its chipped silver rim and the half-heart curve of its handle — when a counterargument suddenly occurs to him.

“Well —” Martin turns back around to face Cass, crossing his arms “— what about you and Nora?”

Cass stares at him; Martin doesn’t know her well enough to tell for certain, but she almost seems genuinely startled by his question

“I mean, you two seem… fairly close in  _ some  _ way,” Martin elaborates. “But you’re avatars of different entities.” He shrugs. “Isn’t there an  _ imbalance  _ there?”

For a moment, the only sound in the break room is the soft hissing of the leftover boiling water in the kettle. Cass still stares at him as she thinks, but her gaze is drifting back towards that same distant look she’d had before.

Then: “… There used to be, to a certain extent.” Half-turning, Cass wanders over to the couch at the opposite wall. “When Nora and I first met, I had only just come into my power, and Nora had already been wielding hers for decades.” She sits down, folding her hands over her knees. “But with time, and between her tested experience and my fresh perspective, we’ve been able to find and maintain an equilibrium.” 

“How so?” Martin asks tentatively.

“The Eye may be the sworn foe of many fears… but the Lonely is one of the few that does not spurn it outright.” Cass finally smiles again, but there’s a bitter irony to her expression this time. “Can someone really call themself  _ lonely  _ if they can’t take a long, hard look at their sad little life and know just how alone and isolated they’ve made themself? And can you call anyone else  _ lonely  _ without seeing how they hide themself within a safe, smothering shell to spare themself from and spear themself on the pain of further rejection?”

Martin shifts his feet uncomfortably. It’s difficult to _ not _ see a ghost of himself in Cass’ words, but he makes an effort to focus his doubts on the supposed  _ harmony _ of this balance between the Eye and the Lonely. To him, it sounds like less of a purposeful truce and more of a pyrrhic ceasefire.

However he and Jon may define their relationship, it certainly isn’t  _ that. _

“But… to  _ want  _ to be close with someone who feeds off of and encourages your worst impulses?” he asks in disbelief. “And who you treat the same way because there’s no other option? That just sounds…” Martin trails off, trying to find the right word to express the depths of his dismay.  _ Codependent? Unhealthy?  _ “Unsustainable.”

For a moment, the distance in Cass’ gaze is the furthest and most fathomless it has ever been. Then her blue eyes snap back to him: still not bright, but clear at least.

“Perhaps,” Cass finally says, leaning back into the couch. “It may be that one day, one of us  _ will _ overstep, and the god which that one serves will drink the other’s fear down to the dregs.” Her smile remains, but is still tinged with melancholy. “But until then, I remain the only one allowed to see Nora as she truly is — and  _ that  _ knowledge is something I would not exchange for all the libraries of the world.”

Seeing the look on her face, Martin almost feels bad for bringing the subject up.  _ Almost,  _ considering where this conversation had begun.

“Martin?” Jon steps through the door to the breakroom, brow furrowed. “Who are you —?” His gaze shifts to his side, to the couch where Cass is perched.  _ “Cass?”  _ he asks, his expression shifting from surprise to suspicion. “What are you doing down here?”

In an instant, Cass’ smile is sunny once again. “What, I  _ still  _ can’t pay a friendly visit to your Archives?” she chides, bounding up from her seat. “I thought we were working  _ together  _ now.”

Martin frowns.  _ Why is she not telling Jon about Mike? _

Jon, for his part, brushes right past Cass; once he sees the mugs of tea steeping on the counter beside Martin, he seems to relax a little. “Thank you, Martin.” He almost reaches for one of them, then his frown returns. “Oh, uh… none of these mugs are  _ mine;  _ which one —?”

“Oh!” Martin exclaims, a little flustered.  _ Honestly, how could I forget  _ Jon? “I’m sorry; it just kind of slipped my mind when Cass…” He trails off, an idea suddenly forming.

_ “Well,”  _ he continues brightly, “Cass said three cups of tea, so —” Martin looks pointedly at Cass. “Do I have that right? One for me, one for Nora, and one for Mike?”

Jon instantly rounds on Cass.  _ “Mike?”  _ he repeats. “Mike  _ Crew?” _

“Which other ‘Mike’ could it be?” Cass retorts, shooting a withering look at Martin.

“Is he _here?”_ Jon asks. “At the Institute?”

Cass rolls her eyes. “I’m sure he is by _ now.” _

“And  _ when  _ were you going to tell me this?” Jon demands. “Or did you just see that my office door was closed and figured I could be kept in the dark on _ this  _ as well?”

Cass looks between Jon and Martin, eyes narrowing. “God, you two really are made for each other,” she remarks. “So annoyingly  _ persistent!” _

“We’re all touched by the Eye; that’s hardly surprising,” Jon says flatly. “So, Cass: were you or were you  _ not  _ going to tell me?”

“I would have,” Cass says, “had Nora told me  _ not  _ to tell you.  _ Not  _ for the reasons you’re thinking,” she quickly adds as Jon’s scowl deepens. “She’s just trying to reduce the number of over-curious eyes in the room.”

“So  _ you’re _ down here because…?” Jon trails off expectantly.

“My eyes are  _ also  _ not needed,” Cass says, almost sulky. “But, tea  _ is.” _

Martin glances down at the mugs on the counter, then back at Cass. “So… I’m going up there —” 

“Absolutely not,” Jon says firmly. “I’m going with you.”

Despite his apprehension, Martin can’t help but be a little pleased at Jon’s readiness to support him.  _ So much for Cass’ fearmongering.  _

Cass lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Nora won’t be pleased,” she says, but it’s less of an argument and more of a weary warning.

“Well, too bad.” Jon glares back at her, his gaze grimly resolute. “Tim got his hand burned to get Mike’s name. This is the _ least  _ I can do to repay him.”

The first thing Martin notices when he enters Nora’s office is that it’s even colder than the last time he was here. Martin can’t say whether the open window is helping or hurting the temperature, but either way, the chill certainly doesn’t seem to be bothering the small, slender man lounging against the windowsill. He’s wearing a loose, sheer shirt the color of lapis lazuli — far too thin for even the sunniest of spring mornings, let alone the overcast spring afternoon outside — and he’s left the top few buttons undone, revealing a jagged scar branching out over his chest and up the side of his neck like a flash of lightning.

Martin freezes in the doorway.  _ Oh,  _ he realizes.  _ So  _ that’s  _ Mike Crew. _

“And how  _ is  _ Simon?” Nora is asking Mike from her seat behind her desk; her tone is surprisingly familiar, almost fond. “What is that old fraud up to these days?”

Mike merely shrugs. “Haven’t seen him in a while,” he says. “But wherever he is and whatever whims he’s indulging, I’m sure he’s having a whale of a time.”

Nora lets out a low chuckle. “Oh, he always does.”

Jon, who had been holding the door open for Martin, closes it a split-second after Cass slips in after the two of them. At the sound of the door closing, both Nora’s and Mike’s heads turn; for her part, Nora’s expression is less disappointed and more wryly resigned.

Mike’s expression is largely neutral, save for a single raised eyebrow. “... Cass.”

Cass flashes him a smile. “Mike!”

Nora gives her a warning look. “Cassandra —”

“Nora —” Jon starts, an edge to his voice.

Nora’s glare shifts to him.  _ “Jon —” _

“I —” Martin holds up the tray of mugs he’s carrying, almost a little too quickly for it to remain stable “— I have the tea.”

In the midst of the tense silence filling Nora’s office, Mike rises from his perch on the windowsill and crosses to Martin. “Well,” he comments, selecting a midnight-blue mug speckled with stars from the tray, “this makes things a  _ tad  _ more hospitable.”

“I meant what I said about this being a friendly chat,” Nora says.

“No doubt.” Mike takes a sip of his tea.  _ “But,  _ you also said you had questions.” He flashes a pointed look at Cass and Jon over the rim of his mug. “And those can be rather  _ leading  _ depending on who’s asking.”

“Which is why  _ I _ will be taking responsibility for that.” Nora shoots a similarly cool look at Cass and Jon.

Cass rolls her eyes, but keeps quiet. Jon nods, but nevertheless looks uneasy.

Nora clears her throat. “You are acquainted with Jude Perry, correct?”

Mike sighs. “Acquainted, yes. Fortunately for me, we’re not closer than that.” He meanders back to the open window, his shirt fluttering around him in the cold breeze. “What’s she done  _ now?  _ Clearly, the Institute isn’t a charred husk; did she burn down Moorland House?”

“If Jude Perry had targeted any property owned by my family, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Nora says bluntly. “No, the Cult of the Lightless Flame has been burning forests.” She folds her hands before her on the desk. “Specifically Gwydir Forest: at Nikola Orsinov’s behest.”

Mike frowns slightly. “I can’t say I’m familiar,” he says, settling back against the windowsill. “Should that name mean something to me?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin sees Cass’ forehead furrow and Jon’s eyes narrow: both just as confused and skeptical.

If Nora is similarly perplexed, she doesn’t show it. “We believe her to be an agent of the Stranger,” she says. “One of many working towards arranging its ritual: the Unknowing.”

“Ah,” Mike says, nodding.  _ “That _ explains why the Eye is so keen on this.” He takes another sip of his tea, clearly deep in thought. “Although... what’s  _ your  _ interest, Nora?” he asks after a moment. “And why ask  _ me? _ The Stranger and the Vast may brush up against fellow existential anxieties, but their scopes and aims are rarely the same.”

_ “I’m  _ interested because Jude wouldn’t give up your name without injuring one of the Institute’s people: one of  _ my  _ people.” Nora remains composed, but Martin now hears the faintest edge of ice to her tone. “So I’m asking  _ you,  _ Mike: what do you know about the Unknowing?”

Mike gives her an incredulous look. “Why,  _ nothing.” _

Martin blinks, taken aback by Mike’s answer. Beside him, Jon’s and Cass’ faces mirror each other’s surprise and suspicion.

Nora’s eyebrows shoot up. “I beg your pardon?”

Mike shakes his head, somewhat conciliatory. “I apologize, Nora,” he says, “but I’m afraid I don’t know anything about what you’re asking.”

“Then why would Jude give us  _ your _ name?” Jon demands, unable to stay silent for any longer.

Mike slowly turns his head, clearly displeased that Jon has spoken. “I don’t know that, either,” he says coolly. “Perhaps she thought it would be amusing to feed false information to one affiliated with the Eye. Or practical,  _ if _ the Lightless Flame’s alliance with the Stranger is ongoing.” He shrugs. “Who can say?”

Jon’s frown deepens. “That seems…  _ specific,”  _ he says slowly. “Are you  _ sure  _ you don’t know anything?”

The words are barely out of Jon’s mouth when Martin feels the faintest frisson of static shooting through the air. Almost immediately, Mike stands up, his body stiffening and his scar flashing, and the cold breeze from the window is suddenly overpowered by the acrid, searing scent of ozone.

In one smooth motion, Nora is out of her seat and between Jon and Mike. “Thank you for your time, Mike,” she tells him graciously, even as she shoots an icy glare back at Jon. “We won’t trouble you further.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Mike says tightly. Weaving around Nora, he approaches Martin; though the smell of ozone is already dissipating in the air, its strong aura nevertheless lingers around Mike.

Martin tenses, his hands clenching around the tray.

Surprisingly, Mike smiles. “What’s your name?” he asks pleasantly, placing his mug back on the tray. Now that he’s this close, Martin sees that his eyes almost match the scar gleaming on his chest and neck: pale and piercing, the same colorlessness of the sky before storm clouds roll in.

“Um —” Martin clears his throat and hopes his voice doesn’t come out _ too _ shaky. “Martin.”

“Martin,” Mike repeats, still smiling. “Thanks for the tea.”

And with that, Mike spins around, strides back to the window, and, in one fell swoop, vaults over the windowsill and into empty air.

Martin claps a hand over his mouth to suppress a shriek, but realizes a split-second later that he’s still holding the tray. He grabs the other edge of the tray, just in time to keep the mugs from toppling off and crashing to the carpet, but his heart is still pounding.

Cass is also shrieking, but with laughter. “Sorry, sorry —” she gasps when Martin shoots her an appalled look, but she doesn’t sound apologetic in the  _ least. _ “Just — your  _ face —” _

“Avatars of the Vast  _ do  _ tend to make an impression with their exits,” Nora says dryly. She crosses to Martin and selects the white mug for herself. “Now, _ Jon —” _ she turns to face him, eyebrows still slightly raised  _ “— what _ did I say about questions?”

“I know what you said,” Jon snaps. “But… do you seriously believe him?”

“I wouldn’t put it past Jude Perry to lie, but Mike Crew is another story.” Nora takes a sip of her tea, then nods appreciatively towards Martin before turning her attention back to Jon. “Speaking of, are you  _ positive  _ of the name Jude gave you?”

“Of course I am,” Jon says tightly.

“Hmm.” Nora’s expression doesn’t change, but Martin thinks her eyes seem a little darker than usual. “Well,” she continues, “though this lead may have brought us to a dead end, we still have two more avenues to explore.”

“... Right,” Jon mutters. He exhales and straightens up, but still looks distinctly unenthusiastic. “So, what’s next?” he asks, crossing his arms. “Breekon and Hope, or the Trophy Room?”

“Cassandra’s already been looking into the Trophy Room, so I see no reason why you two can’t collaborate on that.” Nora takes another sip of tea, her mouth curling into a self-assured smile. “And as for Breekon and Hope… let’s just say our former constable is on the case.”

Late on Friday afternoon, Basira finally returns Jon’s calls.

_ “I’m driving back from Newcastle,”  _ she says before Jon can get a word out. _ “The old Breekon and Hope depot was still standing, but there wasn’t much left there.” _

Jon frowns. Apparently, his own questions for Basira would have to wait for the moment — but he can’t deny he’s more than a little morbidly curious about whatever’s going on with Breekon and Hope. “What  _ was  _ left, then?” he asks, setting his phone down on his desk and switching it to speaker.

_ “Pile of mail about half a meter high. Some old delivery log books.”  _ Basira pauses.  _ “And someone who the local police have since identified as Alfred Breekon. The  _ real _ one.” _

_ Another stolen identity.  _ “Any sign of a real Hope, dead or alive?” Jon grimaces, realizing how that had come out. “I mean, Hope as in —” 

Basira lets out a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh.  _ “Not that I could tell,”  _ she says.  _ “Alfred Breekon’s name was all that was on what little paperwork remained in his office, so my guess is he invented a business partner.” _

Jon rubs tiredly at his temples.  _ No wonder the Stranger targeted him, then.  _ “Anything interesting in the log books?”

He can almost hear Basira’s professional, but noncommittal shrug.  _ “Usually is, but I wouldn’t know what that might be in this case,”  _ she says. _ “I’m bringing them back with me; you can take a look at them yourself.” _

“About that…” Jon says slowly. “Why  _ are  _ you working for the Institute? After everything that happened with…” He swallows, not feeling the need to fill in the rest of the sentence. “I just — I didn’t expect you to actually accept Nora’s offer.”

Basira exhales heavily.  _ “Yeah,”  _ she says. _ “I didn’t either.” _

“Then… why did you?”

For a moment, Jon is worried he catches a crackling of static at the edge of his hearing, but then he realizes, much to his relief, that it’s just a faint rumble of traffic on the other end of the line. Still, he plants his elbows a little more firmly on his desk and waits on tenterhooks all the same.

_ “Because she was right,”  _ Basira finally says. _ “At least about me being  _ restless. _ It’s been months since I quit the force, and I haven’t looked at a single job advert in all that time.”  _ She lets out a short, humorless laugh.  _ “Guess I don’t know anything else but  _ this.”

“‘This’ being… what?” Jon asks in disbelief.  _ “Hunting?” _

_ “That was Daisy,”  _ Basira says firmly.  _ “That’s not me.”  _

Jon unconsciously digs his nails into his palms. “It — it could be,” he tries again, attempting to keep his voice a little more even. “The Institute, it — it  _ changes  _ people, and  _ not  _ for the better. And if you’ve been set back on this path,  _ by  _ the Institute —” 

_ “A two-hundred-year-old building isn’t the problem,”  _ Basira says bluntly. _ “It’s the people running it.” _

Jon’s stomach plummets. “Basira, you can’t —” 

Basira cuts him off.  _ “I’m not stupid, Jon,”  _ she says.  _ “I saw what happened when Daisy came at Lukas and Cass head-on. But I have an in, and I’m _ not  _ going to make the same mistakes she did.” _

“‘Mistakes’?” Jon repeats, unable to keep the anger out of his voice any longer. “Basira, she almost —” 

“Don’t,  _ Jon,”  _ Basira retorts.  _ “I know damn well what Daisy almost did; you don’t have to keep condemning  _ me  _ for it.” _

“Did you really not know what she was planning to do?” Jon accuses.  _ “You,  _ the only other person who knew where all the bodies were buried?”

_ “I didn’t,”  _ Basira insists, a little defensive.  _ “And if I had, I would have told her not to do it.”  _ A faint note of despair weaves through her words.  _ “We could have figured something out. We always did.” _

“That’s the problem,” Jon says bitterly.

Another long silence from the other end of the line. Jon tries to unclench his fists, but fails.

_ “Here’s the problem.”  _ Basira’s voice is steady, but steely. _ “If Lukas knew Daisy was a danger to Jurgen Leitner and to the Institute, why did she let her get as close as she did? Why did Lukas allow Daisy to almost kill Leitner and your assistant before intervening?” _

Jon swallows. Although he instantly sees where Basira is going, he doesn’t want to accept  _ this  _ counterpoint in the middle of  _ this  _ argument. “Nora didn’t _ allow —” _

_ “Bouchard might have been the one to play Daisy, but don’t think that Lukas isn’t playing you, too,”  _ Basira warns.  _ “You don’t trust her. I could see it, and she could see it, too. So she lets a threat get close enough for her to take care of it: right where you and everyone else in the Archives can see her. And once that threat’s eliminated, thanks to _ her…” She lets the half-finished, heavy thought hang in the air by a thread, then cuts it.  _ “Well, why  _ wouldn’t  _ you trust her after that?” _

Now it’s Jon’s turn to sit in uneasy silence.

_ “Don’t worry about the danger  _ I’m _ in, Jon,”  _ Basira says flatly.  _ “Worry about yourself.”  _ And with that, she hangs up.

Jon just stares at his phone, the pit in his stomach only deepening. For a moment, he thinks about calling Basira back, but he’s at a total loss of what to say once —  _ if —  _ she picks up.

Then a calendar alert pops up on his screen, for an event with a start time of five minutes from now:  _ Meet Cass for Trophy Room investigation. _

Shooting out of his seat with an inhaled curse, Jon grabs his phone and drops it in his bag before bolting over to the coatrack to grab his jacket. He pulls it on, then doubles back and hauls his bag off the floor, slinging the strap over his shoulder. Giving his desk a once-over, Jon notes, with no small amount of dismay, that it’s in slightly more disarray than he prefers it to be at the end of the week.

_ Another problem to put off for later, then,  _ he thinks wryly. Turning away from his desk, Jon opens his office door, but stops dead in his tracks on the threshold at the sight before him.

“Thank you again for your assistance —” Placing the stack of books he’s carrying on the corner of his new desk, Leitner frowns in concentration “— Ms. King, was it?”

“It is.” Melanie hands him the stack of books that she’d been carrying. “I… don’t think I ever caught  _ your  _ name, though.”

“Ah,” Leitner says, somewhat strained. “Well, I imagine if you work at the Institute, you’ve probably heard of me.” 

“Oh, I do  _ not  _ work here, and thank  _ fuck  _ for that.” Melanie lets out a wry laugh. “I’m just taking advantage of my Institute connections to use their library.”

“‘Connections’?” Leitner balances the second stack of books on top of the first.

Jon takes that as his cue to let his office door fall shut behind him. 

Leitner gives a start, almost knocking the top few books off the precariously tilting stack, but he quickly recovers them. “Archivist.”

“... Leitner.” Jon shifts his grip on his bag, willing himself not to scowl. “Are you  _ still  _ sleeping down here?”

“For the time being.” Leitner grimaces. “While I’m grateful for Ms. Lukas’ offer of shelter, that  _ room  _ she had renovated hasn’t  _ quite  _ lost the atmosphere of a cell.”

“Wait, wait,  _ wait.”  _ Melanie holds up her hands. _ “Leitner?  _ Any relation to Jurgen Leitner?” she asks jokingly.

Jon squints at her. “How do  _ you  _ know about —?”

“... In a manner of speaking,” Leitner says, somehow managing to look grimly serious and gravely embarrassed at the same time. “I am he.”

Melanie’s eyes widen. “Jon, what the _hell!”_ she exclaims, sounding shockingly giddy as she whirls to face him. “You never told me you knew _Jurgen Leitner!”_

Jon gives up on  _ not _ scowling. “‘Know’ is —” 

“Do you know how long Georgie’s wanted to do a  _ What the Ghost  _ special on this guy and his library?” Melanie demands delightedly, gesturing at Leitner. “If she knew he was  _ alive —” _

“I… would rather your ‘Georgie’ not know,” Leitner interjects awkwardly. “While I appreciate your unexpected enthusiasm, I would appreciate it far more if the rumors of my death were to circulate for as long as possible.”

Melanie raises her eyebrows questioningly.

“He’s almost been murdered twice in the past few months,” Jon says flatly.

_“Shit.”_ Melanie’s eyebrows rise even higher. “Yeah, okay. Completely understandable.” She mimes zipping her mouth shut, then nods in Leitner’s direction. “Lips are sealed.”

“My thanks, Ms. King.” Leitner glances back at Jon. “If you’re planning to stay in the Archives overnight, I can certainly move —” 

“No, no,” Jon says tiredly, waving him off. “Haven’t had to do  _ that  _ in a while. I’m actually leaving shortly.” He snorts. “On a...  _ stakeout,  _ of all things.”

“A stakeout?” Melanie cracks a grin. “Little daring for your delicate academic constitution, isn’t it?”

“My constitution is perfectly  _ fine,  _ thank you,” Jon says tightly. “It’s the constitutions of whatever’s lurking inside that taxidermy shop that I’m more worried about.”

Leitner frowns. “You’re looking into the Trophy Room, I take it?”

“Unfortunately,” Jon says darkly, crossing his arms. “Going in person was  _ not  _ my first choice, but we’re out of investigatable leads and I don’t want to send anyone else into harm’s way, so...” He shrugs. 

“Into harm’s way.” There’s significant doubt in Melanie’s voice. “At a  _ taxidermy shop.” _

“The Trophy Room is run by agents of the Stranger, Melanie,” Jon says dryly. “It’s a particularly sinister taxidermy shop.”

Melanie grimaces. “They really have a thing for  _ skin,  _ don’t they?”

“Quite,” Jon confirms.

Melanie’s expression turns wary. “You’re not… going there alone, are you?” she asks. “I mean, I’m not keen to face one of those things again, but I  _ do  _ have some experience breaking and entering,  _ so —” _

Leitner blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“I used to run a ghost hunting show,” Melanie explains. “And sometimes the locations we wanted to investigate weren’t  _ necessarily  _ open to the public, so…” She shrugs. “Our motto in those scenarios was generally ‘better to ask for forgiveness than for permission’... or for a filming permit.”

Leitner nods in approval. “A practical policy.”

“Just because I’m not sending anyone from the Archives there doesn’t mean I’m going to the Trophy Room alone,” Jon interjects. “Cass has been keeping tabs on the place for the past week, so —”

“Ergh. Never mind.” The grimace is back on Melanie’s face again. “No offense, Jon, but there’s no way I’d go  _ anywhere —” _

“Going  _ where?” _

Jon stiffens in surprise. Turning around, he sees Cass standing just behind his shoulder, as if she’d been there all along —  _ although I certainly didn’t hear her come in,  _ he thinks, slightly discomforted.

Cass looks from Jon, to Melanie, and then back to Jon. “Is she coming with us?”

“Um…” Jon meets Melanie’s glare. “No?”

Cass nods sagely. “Probably for the best.” She flashes a patronizing smile at Melanie. “Wouldn’t want to rile you up any further —  _ or  _ inflame that bullet in your leg!”

Leitner glances down at Melanie’s leg quizzically.

_ “Actually,  _ it doesn’t really bother me that much anymore.” Surprisingly, Melanie meets Cass’ gaze, a furiously cheerful smile on her face. “Besides, I  _ did  _ really want to tag along with you guys. Relive my ghost-hunting glory days, and all that.”

“Melanie —” Jon starts, a little desperately. “What are you —?”

“Plus, do either of you even know  _ how _ to pick a lock?” Melanie continues, ignoring him. “On the off-chance this stakeout turns into an infiltration, you’re probably going to need someone with experience in that.”

Much to Jon’s increasing consternation, Cass actually seems to be considering it. “A  _ very  _ good point, Ms. King,” she says. She glances over at Jon. “Thoughts?”

“I…” Jon trails off helplessly. While he’s deeply concerned for Melanie as it is, and while it’s clear that Melanie’s now determined to tag along out of sheer spite, he’s not sure what he  _ can  _ do if Cass genuinely wants her to come along. “... Fine. It’s fine.”

“Excellent! Ooh, this is going to be so much  _ fun.” _ Gleefully rubbing her hands together, Cass once again looks back and forth between them. “Are you two all ready or do you —?”

“Give me just a —” Jon fumbles with his jacket zipper.

Melanie yanks up the zipper on her own jacket without hesitation. “Ready.”

“Shall we?” Without waiting for an answer from Jon, Cass turns and bounds towards the Archives door.

After a beat, Melanie just shrugs and follows her out. Giving up on his now-snagged zipper, Jon just watches the two of them leave, the pit in his stomach that had been growing ever since Basira’s phone call now an abyss.

Unexpectedly, Leitner chuckles. “Ms. King certainly seems to be quite the daredevil,” he remarks. “I’m rather surprised I ended up running into her in the  _ library,  _ of all places.”

“Mmh.” Jon’s gaze wanders to the tower of books on Leitner’s desk, scanning the motley collection of cracked spines; unsurprisingly, at least half of them seem related to circuses or carnivals or the theatre. “Working on research as well, then?”

“Indeed.” Pulling out his chair, Leitner settles himself at his desk. “If there are any particular statements or tapes of Gertrude’s to investigate, I’ll certainly do so — but in the meantime, I intend to try and paint a more complete portrait of our enemy.” He opens up his desk drawer to retrieve a battered legal pad and a pen. “If the Stranger’s attempted its ritual before, we would do well to discover who or what disrupted it.”

Jon shrugs; try as he might, he can’t exactly argue with that line of reasoning. “Well… happy reading, I suppose,” he says, trying not to sound too begrudging as he starts towards the door.

“Archivist — er, Jonathan.”

At Leitner’s unexpected correction, Jon stops and turns back around.

“Given an actual choice, I’m certain you would much prefer that I would be underneath your Archives rather than  _ in _ them — or not even in the Institute at all.” Leitner’s grey eyes are grave, but grateful. “But… thank you for hosting me. Truly.”

Unsure of how to respond, Jon just settles for a stiff nod.

“And Jonathan —” Leitner’s gaze darts to the Archives door as he lowers his voice “— I meant what I said before about helping you stop the Stranger.” He pulls the topmost book off the stack — a small, thin volume entitled  _ Lost Architecture of London —  _ and flips it open, clicking his pen as he does. “And I intend to follow through.”

“I’m curious, Melanie —” Cass pauses to take a quick gulp of her coffee. Despite it being nearly four by the time the three of them had arrived at the cafe, Cass had nevertheless ordered a large coffee and added an obscene amount of sugar; by Jon’s estimation, she had drank half of it in the first ten minutes after sitting down and had been nursing the rest ever since.  _ “Can _ I call you Melanie?” she asks, then keeps going without waiting for an answer. “How much do you know about —?”

“I know the basics.” Slouching in the seat across from her, Melanie crosses her arms over her chest. “Fears, avatars, all that.” She smiles, a bit bitter. “Jon’s better at explaining things than you.”

Not for the first time this afternoon, Jon wonders if having Cass  _ and  _ Melanie on this mission had been a mistake.

Cass sighs. “I  _ am  _ sorry about that,” she says; surprisingly, she seems to be making an effort to sound contrite. “If I’d known you were a friend of the Archivist —”

“Oh, you  _ didn’t  _ Know that?” Melanie challenges.

“I can read just about everything from dead languages to body language, Melanie,” Cass says lightly. “But  _ minds _ are the exception.”

Cautiously keeping an ear open to the conversation next to him, Jon turns the rest of his attention out the cafe window and across the street. Despite the battered black-and-red  _ Come In; We’re Open  _ sign hanging in the grimy window next to a misshapen taxidermy of a big cat that had an equal chance of being either a lion or a tiger, the Trophy Room seems anything  _ but  _ that. Jon hasn’t glimpsed any movement from inside the shop, let alone anyone entering or leaving; he still hasn’t made up his mind about whether to be relieved by that or not.

_ If we just keep watching, we won’t have to worry,  _ Jon thinks, feeling a frown creep across his face regardless.  _ But if Cass gets tired of waiting — and if Melanie —  _

Melanie speaks up, briefly taking Jon’s mind off whatever could be lurking unseen in the Trophy Room. “So… how  _ do  _ you ‘read’?” she asks. “I know Jon has to ask questions, but can you just...  _ look  _ at people and instantly _ know  _ things about them? Or is it more of a —” she screws up her face, trying to find the right words “— a Sherlock Holmes thing, where you start with a small detail and work out to a bigger picture?”

“The latter.” Cass smirks around the edge of her coffee cup. “Although if Sherlock Holmes was real, he’d  _ wish  _ he was me.” She sets her coffee down on the table, flicking one of her twin braids back behind her shoulders. “As for the details themselves, it doesn’t matter _ what  _ they are. They could be something as ordinary as —” she gestures towards Melanie “— chipped nail polish or a pin on a jacket, or —” Jon gives a start as Cass’ hand flicks idly in his direction “— as extraordinary as the scars left by an enemy fear.” She shrugs. “All I need is for them to catch my eye.”

Melanie frowns in thought, her fingernails digging into her sleeves and her right arm shifting up a bit to partly cover the pin on the chest pocket of her jacket. Before she does, Jon catches a brief glimpse of it: a death’s-head hawkmoth cast in copper. 

Cass notices as well. “That’s a lovely pin, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Melanie says tightly. “But I don’t need you to tell me its story. I know it by heart.”

Cass’ eyes are bright, but she doesn’t speak: only smiles placidly.

Rolling his shoulders to try and work the stiffness out of them, Jon turns his gaze back towards the cafe window and the Trophy Room beyond. Still nothing in sight.

Then again, it’s not like the businesses on the rest of the street seem any busier, let alone the cafe they’ve holed up in. As far as Jon can tell, there’s only one barista on staff, who, outside of making Cass’ coffee, has been steadfastly ignoring them since they got here. And while a few people  _ had  _ walked past the cafe during Jon’s watch — even peered inside the window to see if it was still open — none of them had entered. 

_ Probably for the best,  _ Jon thinks, nervously drumming his fingers on the table.  _ The barista already seems unnerved; if there were any other customers in here, I can’t imagine what they’d think of our conversation. _

_ (You talk about gods and death and demons nice and loud enough, and people will bend over backwards to  _ not _ listen to what you’re saying.  _ Jude Perry’s cruel drawl echoes from a dark corner of his memory, ratcheting up the tension in Jon’s shoulders all over again. _ No one  _ cares,  _ Archivist — except need-to-know-it-alls like you who care too  _ much.)

Melanie breaks the silence once again: presumably before Cass can. “So... what if the details that you can see about someone… don’t necessarily  _ belong  _ to that person?”

Cass raises her eyebrows, intrigued. “Like... a skin stolen by an agent of the Stranger, for instance?” she asks.

Melanie snorts. “I  _ mean —”  _ Uncurling one hand from where it had been anchored on her arm, she jerks her thumb towards where Jon is watching. “It might be a hypothetical  _ now,  _ but it  _ could _ become practical.” She leans back in her seat. “So would you see things about the person whose skin it  _ was?  _ Or would it be things about whoever or  _ whatever  _ is wearing that skin?”

Behind the lion-or-tiger taxidermy, Jon glimpses a flicker of movement before the Trophy Room’s sign is abruptly flipped over to  _ Sorry, We’re Closed. _

“Oh, that’s a  _ fascinating  _ question,” Cass muses, tilting her coffee cup back to get the final dregs. “Theoretically speaking, I imagine things wouldn’t be  _ quite _ as clear-cut as the old self or the new other, but practically speaking —”

“We might find out  _ very  _ soon,” Jon interrupts.  _ “Look.” _

As Cass’ and Melanie’s heads turn to look out the cafe window, the front door of the Trophy Room finally opens. A short woman with close-cropped dark hair steps out, then turns back underneath the shadow of the weather-stained awning to lock the door.

Melanie’s eyes widen. “Oh,  _ shit.” _

Jon whips his head around. “What is it?”

“That — Jon, that’s  _ Sarah.  _ Sarah Baldwin.” Melanie’s still staring across the street, horror beginning to creep over her face. “Or... well, you  _ know.” _

“Are you sure?” Jon asks.

“Positive.” Melanie finally tears her eyes away from the window to look at him, aghast. “But what the hell is she doing  _ here?” _

“I don’t know, but I’d rather like to,” Jon says darkly, looking pointedly at Cass. “Are you  _ sure  _ you’ve never seen anyone here before?”

“I’ve been watching the Trophy Room for the better part of a week, Archivist; until today, I hadn’t seen  _ any  _ sign of movement.” Much to Jon’s dismay, Cass looks just as uneasy as he does. “I mean, I think breaking in  _ is _ still a possibility, but... just a potentially more perilous one.”

“Sarah’s already left, though,” Melanie says. “What else could be in there?”

“Well, there’s the Angler Fish — the creature that stole Sarah’s skin,” Jon says, raising his fingers as he continues to rattle off names. “Plus, Daniel Rawlings: another victim of the Angler Fish. And perhaps Breekon and Hope — I don’t see their van anywhere, but it might be parked in the mews —”

“Yeah, I’m  _ not  _ liking those odds,” Melanie mutters.

“Neither do I.” Jon glances back at Cass. “I know Basira’s on her way back to London; we could call her for backup —”

Cass is already shaking her head. “A Hunter, even a fledgling one, will only escalate whatever situation we find ourselves in even further.” Her eyes shift none-too-subtly to Melanie. “So will a soldier of the Slaughter.”

“I already told you, I’m _fine,”_ Melanie says shortly. “And right now, I’m a _lot_ more concerned about whatever Sarah’s up to than the ghost bullet in my leg.”

“But… what if —?” Jon starts, then sighs, then tries again. “What if whatever we run into in the Trophy Room is dangerous enough that — that the Slaughter —?”

Melanie whips her head around to glare at him. “Seriously, Jon?” she demands. “You  _ know  _ I’m trying to find out  _ more  _ about what all of _ this  _ is! But as soon as I get out of the stacks and back into the field, you —”

“The Archivist has a point,” Cass interrupts, surprisingly firm. “You should retreat, Melanie:  _ before  _ you begin marching to the beat of a different drummer.”

“Well, if I do  _ that,  _ neither of you are getting into the Trophy Room,” Melanie retorts. “I’m here for a reason, remember?”

Jon and Cass exchange a look. As much as he would hate to admit it in this moment, Jon is all  _ too _ aware that his own breaking and entering skills are subpar, at  _ best;  _ frankly, considering the broken window he’d left at Gertrude’s flat, he’d been lucky to get away before the police showed up. And judging by the slightly vexed expression on Cass’ face, Jon is almost certain that lockpicking is  _ not  _ among her many talents. 

“... You are,” Cass says carefully.  _ “But,  _ don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Melanie snorts and pushes her chair back, the sound of the metal legs scraping across tile making Jon wince. “Consider me warned.” Standing up, she stalks towards the cafe door and wrenches it open, the bell hanging over the threshold clanging loudly.

Giving a strained, apologetic smile to the startled barista, Jon grabs his bag, gets up, and, catching the door before it can fully close, follows Melanie out. She’s already crossed the street; Jon is out of the cafe just in time to see her slip around the side of the Trophy Room, into the mews, and out of sight. Similarly, Sarah Baldwin is nowhere to be seen.

Cass is at his side a split-second later. “It was her father.” 

For a moment, Jon forgets to be startled at her stealth. “Sorry?”

“Her father gave her the pin,” Cass says candidly. “Though she only pinned it on her jacket —  _ his  _ old jacket — once he went into a care home and the cold was no longer his concern.” She sighs, as if wistful. “Even as his memories withered and his mind grew overrun with insidious ivy, he never forgot to take pride in how his little moth charted her own course through life’s meadows.”

Jon frowns, bits and pieces of Cass’ peculiar phrasing floating through his head. But as soon as the scattered words merge together in his mind —  _ meadows, moths, ivy,  _ meadows — he  _ knows  _ that  _ that  _ is what he was meant to hear.

_ “Ivy Meadows?”  _ Jon looks sharply at Cass. “Is  _ that  _ what you meant? Is that where Melanie’s father was?”

“Maybe?” Cass cocks her head. “Should that name... mean something to me?”

“No, I don’t — probably not.” Jon exhales heavily. “It was a care home mentioned in a — a statement. Case 0121911, statement of Nicole Baxter.” His skin prickles faintly as he says the case number; unfortunately, it’s all coming back to him now. “Six years ago, there was an outbreak of — of  _ disease _ there, spread by an avatar of the Corruption named John Amherst. Ivy Meadows was —” He swallows. “It had to be burned. No survivors, except Ms. Baxter, who witnessed the fire, and the — the firestarters themselves, whoever they were.”

Cass’ wide eyes flick from Jon, to the mews Melanie had vanished into, and then back to Jon. “Does… she know?” she asks. “I mean,  _ truly  _ know.”

“I, uh — no, I don’t think so,” Jon says. “I mean, she’s never said anything about her family life, and I certainly wasn’t about to pry, so —” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God.  _ God.” _

Cass regards him in silence for a moment. Then: “… Will you tell her?”

“I —” Jon lets his hand fall limply from his face. “I don’t know if I  _ can.” _

“You should.” Cass’ expression has a surprisingly melancholy cast to it. “Even a secret meant by the Eye to harm has a chance to heal, if revealed early enough.”

Jon stares at her, unsure of how to respond to that.

“Oi!” Melanie sticks her head out of the mews.  _ “What  _ are you two waiting for?” she demands. “Stop chatting and come  _ on;  _ I found the back door.”

Barely looking up and down to check for oncoming traffic first, Jon hastily crosses the street.  _ Yet  _ another  _ problem to put off for later.  _ “Is it locked?”

“Not anymore.” Melanie rocks back on her heels with her hands in her jacket pockets, jerking her head in the direction of the mews. “Truth be told, the doorknob was  _ real  _ rusty — one good yank was all it needed.”

Jon looks past her into the mews between the Trophy Room and its neighbor. Overall, they’re a dismal sight; the pavement is riddled with cracks and puddles, and the base of the wall between the two buildings is grimy and grey with years of accumulated street filth. The back door itself is tucked into the corner where this wall meets the side of the Trophy Room, limply hanging open on its hinges. Even at this distance, Jon can see the deep orange-red rust coating the hinges and the doorknob: the color far too reminiscent of dried blood for his liking.

Cass peers around him. “Well, no one’s parked back here,” she remarks. “That bodes well.”

“As far as Breekon and Hope are concerned, anyway,” Jon responds darkly. “I don’t think the Angler Fish needs to drive. Or _ can.” _

Cass just laughs. “Lighten  _ up,  _ Archivist!” She slips past him, walking briskly towards the open door. “Let’s just get inside and see what we can see, all right? We’ll be gone before the Stranger’s any wiser.”

Jon hesitates, but once Melanie turns to follow Cass, he follows as well. As he approaches the door and slips inside after the two of them, he pulls the sleeve of his jacket over his hand, and then uses his covered hand to partially close the door behind them: not enough to relock it, but enough so that it would look closed from the outside. When Jon readjusts his cuff, he can see even in the low light that some flecks of coppery rust are embedded in the fabric.

A light clicks on then, illuminating the stain on his jacket in sudden, bloody brightness. Blinking, Jon glances over to see that Cass has switched on the desk lamp; unsurprisingly and unsettlingly, the lampstand is a bundle of three taxidermied deer legs, hooves shining under the yellow lamplight.

“Are you  _ sure  _ that’s a good idea?” Jon asks pointedly, reaching into the side pocket of his bag. “I brought a torch for a  _ reason.” _

Cass rolls her eyes. “Stop worrying, Archivist. I really don’t think anyone else is here to see us.” As she speaks, she crouches down beside the desk and opens up its bottom drawer, hefting up a heavy account book. “Besides, I need light to read.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m in favor of leaving the lamp  _ on,” _ Melanie says dryly. She’s turned on her phone torch, shining it around the back office. “Anything to kill the ‘survival horror game’ mood.”

Lifting his gaze, Jon reluctantly follows the path of Melanie’s torch beam. The back office is small and cramped, dominated by the heavy oak desk that Cass now stands over and an equally imposing cabinet of drawers nearer to the back door. True to Alexander Scaplehorn’s statement (Case 0132306 — as with the Baxter statement, Jon didn’t like how quickly he could recall that information), the walls are covered in pelts and other treated animal skins: dusty and faded with age. While the sight makes Jon’s own skin crawl, he’s suddenly, strangely grateful that the door to the main floor of the shop is closed, shielding him from the gruesome array of silent, staring creatures lying in wait.

The torch beam moves from the walls as Melanie goes to the threshold of a door that  _ is  _ open. “Workshop, looks like,” she reports, flashing the light down to the bag of sawdust propping open the door. _ “Shockingly _ non-murder-y —” She then brings the light back up and grimaces. “Never mind. Spoke too soon.”

“Melanie, just —” Pulling out his own torch from his bag, Jon switches it on. “Let’s just stay in the office, all right?”

“Oh, believe me, I am staying right here.” Melanie raises her phone a little higher, illuminating a rack of a variety of wickedly sharp and suspiciously clean tools on the far wall of the workshop, but she doesn’t step over the threshold. “If there’s one thing I know after making a career out of paranormal investigation, it’s that  _ Scooby-Doo  _ rules don’t apply to real life. You  _ never  _ split up to search for clues.”

Despite the unease coiling in his stomach, Jon cracks a smile. “Martin’s of the same opinion when it comes to... ‘splitting the party,’ as he terms it.”

“And he’s right.” Melanie glances over her shoulder with a grin. “Speaking of which, did you ever ask him out?” she asks. “I know Georgie and I kind of  _ told  _ you to that one time when we went out for drinks, but —”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go there, Melanie,” Cass says lightly, not even looking up from the account book she now has open on the desk. “Martin was  _ quite _ tetchy when I brought up the subject with  _ him.” _

“Wonder why,” Melanie mutters, turning back to scanning the tables and racks within the workshop from her position at the door.

Resolving to not rise to Cass’ bait, Jon refocuses as best he can. “Are you finding anything?” he asks, crossing to the desk and training his torch on the account book. “I mean, can you even make sense of this?”

“Enough sense to know that these transactions are suspiciously tidy.” Pursing her lips, Cass runs a finger down a neat column of numbers. “If I didn’t already know this business was a front for the Stranger, I do now.”

Jon sighs, adjusting his grip on his torch. “We probably should have investigated the Trophy Room earlier, but I didn’t want to send anyone here on their own,” he admits. “Too many unknowns.”

From behind him comes a low, mocking laugh. _ “Far  _ too many for the  _ Eye _ to see.”

Jon gives a start, nearly knocking into Cass as she whirls around as well. 

Sarah Baldwin is standing between them and the back door. Caught in the beam of Jon’s torch, her glassy eyes shine with a strange, sinister gleam.

Then she catches sight of Melanie, frozen on the threshold of the workshop, and those eyes narrow. “Haven’t you learned to not snoop where you’re not welcome?”

“Evidently not.” Melanie’s tone is markedly casual, but as she props her shoulder against the doorframe, Jon can see how badly she’s shaking. “Then again, I imagine getting some skin ripped off is a lesson one wouldn’t forget.”

Sarah smiles nastily. “And I  _ haven’t.”  _ As she speaks, one of her hands creeps from her side towards the cabinet and one of its smaller drawers.

“You know, Melanie,” Cass suddenly says, surprisingly chipper, “I didn’t ask you before, but —” She looks directly at Sarah, her blue eyes bright even in the gloom of the back office. “Sarah, how  _ exactly  _ do you know Melanie?”

Sarah’s hand hovers in place over the drawer handle, tendons straining even as her hand remains utterly still. As soon as he hears the static crackling at the edge of his hearing, Jon knows exactly what Cass is doing, and what she intends for  _ him  _ to do.

So this time, instead of shutting it out, he lets the static fill his ears in a spine-tingling rush of sound — and allows the question to form on his tongue.

“You  _ are  _ the same Sarah Baldwin that disappeared in Edinburgh in August 2006, correct?” His voice is clear and commanding and  _ cold, _ and for a single, jarring moment, Jon’s skin prickles with something more than static.

Sarah’s mouth twitches, somewhere between a smile and a snarl.  _ “… Some _ of her,” she finally says. “Skin. A few memories. The insides… not so much.” She shoots a glare at Melanie. “As for the ghost hunter, I went on one of her filming expeditions to the old Cambridge Military Hospital. Thought I’d have a little fun with some overcurious idiots, but as it turned out, I’d trespassed. And I paid for it.”

Cass hums. “Taxidermy shop assistant  _ does  _ seem like a demotion.”

“But why are you  _ here?”  _ Jon asks. “You, and Daniel Rawlings, and — and the others taken by the Angler Fish, I assume.”

Sarah’s shoulders jerk up in a short, sharp shrug. “It’s where we were told to be.”

“And — and Breekon and Hope?” Jon presses. “What were they delivering here? What’s the significance of this place?”

“Nothing, except what people give it,” Sarah says.  _ “But, _ they give much, and that makes this a place of power for us: enough to keep certain artifacts here. The couriers bring them, and take them, and deliver them to where they need to be.” That nasty smile settles on her face once again. “Like your Institute.”

Jon swallows, remembering the table and what had been lurking inside of it.  _ So… we  _ were  _ targeted.  _

Cass picks up the questioning. “What sorts of artifacts?”

Sarah shrugs again. “Books. Relics. But nothing since the skin.”

“The — the  _ skin?”  _ Confused, Jon glances around him at the preserved pelts and skins hanging on the walls of the back office.  _ Which one? _

And then he sees a large, pale patch of exposed wood — considerably less dusty than the rest of the office, as if something had been hanging there for decades before being taken down from the walls — and something clicks in his head.

“The — the ancient taxidermy that Alexander Scaplehorn saw?” Jon looks back at Sarah, keen for confirmation of his theory. “I — I mean, the gorilla skin? From Carthage?”

Sarah stares back at him, impassive except for her twisting mouth. “Yes.”

“Is that important? For the Unknowing?”

“Yes.”

Cass jumps back in. “So where is it _now?”_

For the first time since confronting them, Sarah blinks.  _ “... You  _ have it.”

Cass glances at Jon, clearly baffled. _ “Do _ you?”

“Um… no,” Jon says slowly. “Do  _ you?” _

“No!” Cass scoffs. “Why would  _ I —?” _

“It was the old woman,” Sarah snaps, cutting Cass off.  _ “She  _ stole it.”

Jon freezes. “Gertrude… did  _ what?” _

_ “She  _ killed Daniel.  _ She _ stole the skin.  _ She —” _ Sarah’s mouth snaps tightly shut, lips white with rage.

Cass inhales: another soft hiss of static.

“She meant to  _ ruin _ us,” Sarah spits out. “But the Opening Night draws near.” Her glaring, glassy eyes —  _ no,  _ Jon realizes then,  _ her  _ glass  _ eyes — _ blaze in the torchlight. “And you,  _ Archivist, _ cannot deny us our dance any longer.”

Before Jon or Cass can respond, Sarah’s hand makes it to the drawer, yanking it open with a screech of scraping wood. Metal flashes in the torchlight as Sarah seizes a pair of scissors with curved tips and poises to lunge — 

— and then Melanie is in front of him, and Jon’s torch picks up a new gleam: that of a scalpel blade. 

“Stay back.” One arm flung out before Jon and Cass, Melanie points the scalpel clenched in her other hand towards Sarah. “Or —”

“Or _what?”_ Sarah laughs derisively. “You think _that_ will do anything to me? You think _any_ of you can do anything to me?”

_ “They’re  _ from the Institute,” Melanie says matter-of-factly. “But  _ I’m  _ from Cambridge Military Hospital.” She grins, teeth showing. “And you  _ know  _ the Eye doesn’t give the orders there.”

Sarah’s eyes narrow even further. “… You’re bluffing.”

Melanie’s eyebrows rise.  _ “Am _ I?”

Fear twists Jon’s stomach. He can hazard a guess as to when and where Melanie got her hands on the scalpel: leaning against the doorway of the workshop, just enough for her hand to remain unseen as she searched for any tool that could function as a weapon. But for the life of him, he can’t tell whether or not Melanie means to use it.

“The Stranger’s the fear with the knack for theatre,” Cass says lightly, her eyes still bright. “You of  _ all _ people should know when someone’s acting or not.”

Sarah’s gaze darts between Melanie and Cass; to Jon’s eyes, she almost seems uncertain.

Cass sees Sarah’s hesitation too, and she laughs. “Then again, you’re no painted player, Sarah,” she mocks. “You are sawdust and cloves. One slash from the Slaughter’s sacrificial blade, and your body —” She stops, voice catching on a choked breath.

“Cass?” Unnerved, Jon glances over at her.

Cass inhales, the rush of static around her deafening in Jon’s ears. “Your body —” She stops again, mouth hanging open slightly.

Sarah’s glass eyes snap back to Cass, but she doesn’t move.

Cass’ jaw drops. “Your  _ skin —”  _ she manages between ragged breaths. Even as her face gets greyer and greyer, her eyes remain startlingly bright, but the light in them is alarmingly feverish. “Snipped away from bolts of flesh — stitched with gutstrings woven of your own sinew — tailored to fit a stranger with no form or face of its own —”

In a scream of static, Cass crumples.

Heart leaping into his throat in panic, Jon grabs for her, but loses his grip on the torch. As the torch clatters on the floor, Sarah lunges for the desk lamp and the back office goes dark. For a brief, terrifying moment, Jon can’t see — then the torch rolls back around, and the beam silhouettes Sarah as she bolts for the back door. 

_ “Shit!”  _ Melanie’s shadow flashes across Jon’s vision as she leaps forward. She barely makes it in time to grab the doorknob as Sarah tries to yank the back door shut behind her. Melanie struggles with all her might to keep the door open, but Sarah’s pulling back even harder, shaving down the sliver of light around the door.

“The  _ face —”  _ At Jon’s feet, Cass groans in agony; her eyes are wide and wildly rolling in their sockets. “The face defaced, the face replaced — the face that’s not your face that’s not your face that’s  _ not your face —” _

Suddenly, an explosion of sound shocks Jon out of paralysis. First, a fierce yell. Then, a sickening  _ rip,  _ and a scream. And then a wail of rusty hinges as the back door is thrown open, flooding the office with blinding light.

Jon coughs violently, rubbing at his face; some sickly-sweet smell is drenching the dusty air, stinging his already-sensitive eyes. As his vision unblurs, he can make out Melanie leaning against the doorframe, chest heaving as if she’d just run a marathon. As she does, the scalpel falls from her hand, something caught on the edge of the blade.

And at his feet, Cass abruptly stills.

“Cass? Cass!” Jon lets his shaking legs give out, and he collapses beside her. Grabbing her shoulder, he turns her limp body over; to his dismay, her eyes are now closed.  _ “Can you hear me?” _

Cass’ eyes fly open. “Yes,” she answers immediately, then grimaces.  _ “Oh.  _ Ergh.” She squeezes her eyes shut, then slowly cracks them open: a bleary, but familiar blue. “Did you  _ have  _ to do that?”

Too late, Jon hears the receding static. “I’m sorry,” he says hastily. “I just — are you all right?” He glances up at Melanie. “Are  _ you?” _

Melanie nods, clearly still winded. “What —” she manages “— was  _ that?” _

“A practical answer.” Cass slowly pushes herself up off the floor. “To your earlier question.” She smiles weakly. “I — I should have guessed that agents of the Stranger would not be a straightforward read.”

Melanie frowns. “Too much for the Eye to take in?”

Cass exhales. “Much more than I bargained for.” She looks up at Melanie. “Is Sarah gone?”

“Erm…” Melanie’s gaze goes, somewhat guiltily, to her feet. “Most of her.”

In the late afternoon light, Jon finally gets a good look at the scalpel Melanie had dropped. Caught on the blade is a long, thin shred of skin that looks like the finger of a soiled glove, surrounded by dark brown pellets that Jon suddenly realizes, the smell still strong in his nose, are cloves.

Jon’s head snaps up, utterly aghast. “Melanie,” he says, his voice shaking. “You —  _ you  _ did that?”

_ “Yes,”  _ Melanie says, a little testy. “Because  _ she  _ was trying to lock us in here, and God knows what would have happened to us if she’d succeeded.”

“But — but the Slaughter —” Jon stammers. “That’s what it —”

“Jon!” Melanie snaps. “I am  _ fine.  _ See?” She holds out her hands: slightly smeared with sawdust, but clean of blood. “Look, attacking unprovoked is the Slaughter’s thing, right? Sarah attacked  _ us.  _ So what  _ I _ did? Self-defense. Defense of  _ all  _ of us, actually,” she adds archly, “so  _ you’re welcome.” _

Jon looks desperately at Cass.

Cass just shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you two so.”

Melanie glares at her. “Pot. Kettle. Black.”

Cass sobers slightly. “... Indeed.”

Jon swallows, that pit in his stomach widening once again. But this time, his worry is far stronger than his fear.  _ If mine and Melanie’s connections to the entities that have laid claim to us are growing stronger… and if Cass’ powers can’t defeat the agents of the entity we’re trying to stop… _

_ What does that mean for  _ us?  _ Have we gone far enough that we can’t get back out? _

“... I think,” he says carefully, picking himself up off the floor, “we can safely say that this…  _ stakeout  _ was a bust.”

“Not _ entirely _ a loss.” Cass stands as well, albeit unsteadily. “We know that the skin’s important, wherever it is.”

“And that Gertrude had it.” Jon sighs.  _ “Somewhere.” _

“Mmh.” Though color is beginning to creep back into Cass’ complexion, her face is still worn and weary. “That being said… we also now know that my particular talents don’t hold a candle to the Stranger’s obfuscations,” she says. “I have absolute faith in Nora’s abilities, of course, but…” Cass sighs, scraping some hair that had come out of her braids away from her face. “I won’t be able to help her like I thought.”

“Meaning?” Melanie asks, her brow furrowing.

“Watch your backs,” Cass says simply. “Both of you.” She looks between Jon and Melanie, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “Whether we meant to or not, we’ve stepped onto the Stranger’s stage now. And it won’t be long before whoever’s directing this show makes their entrance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**CW:** Discussion of unhealthy relationship dynamics, police brutality apologism, use of Beholding powers as an interrogation method, Beholding powers backfiring on user, brief violence._
> 
> Nicole Baxter's statement is [MAG 36: Taken Ill](https://the-magnus-archives.fandom.com/wiki/MAG_36:_Taken_Ill), and Alexander Scaplehorn's statement is MAG 54: Still Life.


End file.
